


Walk Unafraid

by skybound2



Series: Courageous Stumbling [1]
Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, Discussions of past child abuse, Drama, Family Feels, Humor, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Sharing a Bed, because Vampires, discussions of past spousal abuse, will add more tags as they become relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-05-01 00:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14508465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybound2/pseuds/skybound2
Summary: The head of Santa Carla’s gang of vampires has been killed by a fence post to the heart. It should be over. Itshould.Except that it isn’t. Not really.Not for Michael.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into Lost Boys fic, thanks to being bitten by a plot bunny after a recent rewatch (or three) of the film following a several year hiatus, despite owning a copy. (Netflix just makes things easier!) This IS a WIP, but I am currently five chapters deep in the writing, so updates should be pretty regular for a while at least. 
> 
> Title borrowed from the song of the same name by _R.E.M._ (though it was the version by _First Aid Kit_ that was playing when I was titling this fic). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some mild liberties with the timeline in the film. (Based on in-film comments as well as deleted scenes, I'm working off the idea that Michael spent quite a few nights hanging out with David and his boys before he went floating to the ceiling in his room.) It's not hugely important to know that, but thought I would say so regardless, to curb any confusion.

* * *

Max’s remains fall like tainted snow, bathing the room and its occupants in soot and ash. The head of Santa Carla’s gang of vampires, killed by a fence post driven - _literally_ \- straight through the heart.

It should be over. It _should._

But as Star releases a gust of air against Michael’s neck, her body sagging in his embrace on the exhale, Michael knows that for him, it’s really _not_.

Her hands clutch at his shirt as she murmurs her relief, and he tightens his knuckles where they grip her close. Between one breath and the next, her scent shifts from a familiar rusty tang to something sweeter. _Richer._ The thrum of the blood pulsing through her veins grows louder in his ears with the rapid change; hunger swelling in his gut that makes saliva pool on his tongue. He flexes his fingers out, then in; uncertain. Disappointment warring with relief when she pulls away and rushes towards Laddie at the child’s joyful shout of her name.  

Michael swallows. Sucking in a short breath of air that only serves to highlight the fact that his thirst hasn’t faded with Max’s death. The inhale carries the myriad scents of the room’s human occupants straight to him.

Want - _need_ \- claws at his insides. He digs blunt nails into the fleshy meat of his palm, and forces it down. _Down_. Burying it beneath a layer of paper-thin denial he knows won’t last past sunrise.

But for now….for now he will try and pretend. Pretend that he too feels the same freedom that Star and Laddie are enjoying. And so he forces a quiet query up and out, asking if everyone is okay.

Because maybe if everyone else is, he can be too.

The question seems to break the still air of the room and his mother and brother rush to him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, and his waist. He wants to cling to them. To bury his face against his mother’s warm skin the way he did when he was small and frightened by the monsters in his closet. When he would call her name out in terror, and she would scoop him up in her arms and rock him back to sleep. Promising him that no harm would come to him. That she would keep him safe.

He wishes that he was that small boy again, and that the monsters could be kept away by the will and vigilance of his mother’s arms. But his empty stomach clenches tight when he bends his head close to theirs, his gums itching around his canines, and he knows that the only monster in the room is him.

He pulls away, grateful for the distraction that his grandfather offers. The old man’s blasé statement popping the tension in the house like a pin to an overinflated balloon. 

His mother and his brother begin to pepper the man with questions, but he shrugs them off. Barking out a rough command. “How ‘bout we save story time for _after_ this mess is cleaned up, huh? Blood stains you know.”

As far as a call to action goes, it gathers only a lukewarm response, but Michael grasps at the diversion it offers regardless. “Yeah. Sure, Grandpa.” He backs away from the carnage coated kitchen, Sam at his heels, while his not even remotely appeased mother stays put, blinking owl-eyes at her root-beer drinking father.

Michael makes his way back to the living room - or, what’s left of it - his footsteps faltering as he walks past his Grandpa’s workshop. He doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to turn his head towards the pale body laying slack on the desk, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

The sight sets off a confusing mess of emotions in Michael.

Anger. Fear. Pain.

_Loss._

It’s all too much. A swirling maelstrom that he is in no place to deal with at the moment. Not if he wants to stay functional for any length of time. And he needs to stay functional. Because if he doesn’t…if he lets himself slip down into that pit?

Then this will all have been for nothing, and he can’t have that.

So with a monumental amount of effort, he tears his eyes away, and continues on through to the living room.

He works his way around the truck, where the Frog brothers and Sam are arguing over who gets the honor of backing it out of the house. When he makes it to the other side, he’s surprised to find Laddie and Star slumped against the banister, asleep. Twin heartbeats thump out in time from the pair in a strange sort of synchronicity, loud as thunder in Michael’s ears.

He reaches out towards Star to wake her, but catches himself, hesitating to make contact with the bare skin of her shoulder. Something telling him it would be a bad idea to do so while his cravings remain. Instead, he kneels in front of her, pressing his palm to her skirt covered knee and gives her a nudge. “Star?”

“Hmm, Michael?” She blinks at him, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a soft, sleepy smile. He tries to return it, really he does, but he can’t manage more than a half-hearted grimace.

“You fell asleep?”

“Mmm...tired. Aren’t you tired?" 

Michael shakes his head. There’s a lot he’s feeling at the moment, but tired isn’t one of them. Bitterly, he thinks that will only come with the sun. “Come on, let’s get the two of you upstairs.”

“Okay.” She slides upright, pulling Laddie with her. Michael rests the tips of his fingers on top of the shirt against her lower back as he guides her up the stairs and down the hallway to his room, frowning when he sees the state of his destroyed bed. He changes course, and leads the pair to Sam’s room, and helps them get settled. Laddie’s out the second his head hits the pillow, but Star’s hand tangles with his as he pulls away, the touch of her skin on his an electric fire sizzling up through his nerves.

The look she gives him is open, relaxed. The brown of her eyes so very warm, and yet it takes a force of will he had no idea he possessed to keep his eyes from straying to the curve of her neck. “It’s over, Michael. It’s really over.”

Michael can’t quite bring himself to voice a lie, but he manages a nod as he disengages his hand from hers. “Get some rest, Star.” 

“Stay?”

He shakes his head. “Gotta clean up first.”

She sighs, her eyes closing as she relaxes into the mattress. “Come back.”

It takes several long seconds for him to break his focus away from the pulse at her throat to voice a gruff “okay.” But even as he says it, he knows that he won’t. He _can’t_.

Not when he’s _starving_ and she smells like _food_.

He pulls the door tight behind him, closing his eyes and pressing his back against the wood to center himself. Through the door, he can hear the slow, steady breathing of pair behind it. The scent of their blood over the distance as strong and clear as if it were spilling to the floor at his feet. The both of them so very human now. 

So why isn’t he?

Anger and frustration mix with the hunger. He clenches his hands into fists. This time, too long nails press against his palms, leaving bloody crescents. The desire to lick them clean rises fast, and hot. He counts backwards from ten to get himself back under control, but his reverie is broken at three by a worried sounding “Mike?” 

“Yeah, Sam?”

“You - uh, you okay?” 

Michael coughs out a monosyllabic laugh. He cracks his eyes, sliding his gaze from the ceiling to his baby brother, and finds any will he has to lie flee him at the concerned expression on Sam’s face. “No. I’m not.” He pushes off the door, pulling himself up straight. “Laddie and Star are sleeping in your room tonight. They’ve been through a lot, so leave ‘em alone, alright?”

“Yeah, sure, Mike. But-” 

“Listen, Sam, can we just...not. Please?” He look at his brother, the weight of everything that’s happened, of everything that is _still_ happening to him, pressing down on his shoulders like a physical force until he is slouching into himself.  

Sam’s worried gaze softens a fraction. “Okay, Mike.” 

“Thank you.”

“Grandpa says we need to get all of the, um, remains and stuff out of the house before sunrise. Says they should go up in smoke if we do that.” 

“Should?” 

Sam shrugs. “Apparently, Alan and Edgar are right about a few things, and all shitsuck-” Michael stiffens in anticipation of his brother’s oft-use descriptor, only for Sam to cut himself off mid-word. “All vampires go out different; may mean they won’t all react the same to a sunlight burial. Worth a shot though.”

Unbidden, an image of David waking up screaming and on fire in an open field at dawn flashes across Michael’s mind, and he flinches. “Yeah. Right.”

Sam frowns, eyes pinching at the corners. “Mike-”

“Come on, Sam. Let’s just- let’s just get to work.”

The frown doesn’t leave his little brother’s face, but he gives a nod of agreement, which is good enough for Michael.

Hell, anything that means that Michael doesn’t need to talk about what he’s thinking or feeling (or regretting) is good by him. And if it can keep him distracted long enough that he can stop thinking about anything and everything entirely? Even better.

The two of them creep back downstairs to gather up a bucket and trash bags. As they exit the kitchen again, they leave behind their wide-eyed mother - who seems to be peeling slow answers out of their grandfather - and gather a trail of Frogs on their way back up the stairs.

When Sam swings the door to the bathroom open, Michael blanches. The carnage inside is even worse than what’s in the kitchen, but it’s the visible remains of Paul sloughing away in the tub that makes him feel dizzy. 

“Bloodsuckers are disgusting pieces of work. The way this one melted down like a slushie? You guys are gonna need new pipes.”

“Really, Ed? You think?” Sam’s sarcastic retort lightens the atmosphere enough to break Michael from his staring contest with the corpse he’d been parting with just a few days earlier.

How has this become his life?

Leaving the trio bickering in the doorway, Michael steps into the bathroom, only to come up short when he catches sight of his still translucent reflection in the blood-smeared mirror. _Shit_.

Unwilling to deal with his ongoing half-vampire status with the Frog brothers around, he backs up, thrusting the bucket into the darker haired kid’s hands and pushing his way back out of the bathroom into the hallway.

“Mike? Where you going?”

Michael slows down his departure, but doesn’t turn around to look at his brother. “Downstairs. You three can handle this. I’ll deal with the rest.” 

Behind him, one of the Frogs voices his approval. “Divide and conquer. Good plan. I like it.”

“Ed? Shut up.”

“What? It’s a good plan-”

Michael tunes their conversation out as he works his way down the stairs and over to where Dwayne’s electrocuted form is disintegrating against the wall. The bickering upstairs is still audible to him, but considering he can also hear their heartbeats (and those of Star and Laddie sleeping in Sams room, and his Mom and Grandpa in the kitchen) that isn’t that big of a surprise. 

As he stares at the corpse, trying to reconcile it with the memory of the living version, the memory of David’s form going slack flashes to the front of Michael’s brain, and he knows that Dwayne’s body is going to have to wait until he’s dealt with his own personal devil. With a sigh, he changes course and heads into his grandfather’s workshop where the remains of his kill lay waiting.

_‘You tried to make me a killer!’_

_‘You_ are _a killer.’_

Turns out, David was right.

Idly, Michael wonders if that’s why he’s still... _still_ , and Star and Laddie aren’t. Was killing David the nail in his coffin? But if it was, why didn’t he fully turn? Is it because David was a vampire and not a human?

Did he fuck up the vampire checks and balance system so much that the universe just doesn’t know what to do with him, so it’s opting to leave him to deal with it his damn self?

His mind is spinning with so many questions that he doubts he’ll ever have satisfying answers to. _Not like there’s anyone left to ask anyway, is there?_

He slips into the room on quiet feet, eyes locked on David’s unmoving form. If it weren’t for the horns protruding from his chest, Michael could convince himself he’s only sleeping.

Or maybe Michael’s the one that’s sleeping, and this whole shit-show has just been some drug-induced nightmare. He pauses to suck in one shaky breath after another.

Absent of the teasing eyes, and taunting smirk, David looks so very young. It makes Michael wonder how old he was really. _Never grow old, and never die?_ So how long had David and his boys been roaming the world, killing and eating and partying. A year? Ten? A hundred? 

Michael wishes he’d had a chance to ask, but tells himself it’s better this way. Better that things ended before David’s claws had dug any deeper into Michael. If he’s feeling conflicted now, when he’d only known him for such a short time, and not all that well, he can’t imagine how much harder things would have been another week down the line. Or a month. 

Would he have been able to make the same choice then? It scares Michael that he’s not sure. Because there _was_ no other choice. It was David and his family, or Michael and his.

No contest.

Right?

He takes one more breath, releasing it on a long exhale to help clear his head. Doubts and second guesses will have to wait. 

He slips his hands beneath David’s shoulders and pulls the body up and off the antlers. The action makes a horrible squelching sound that seems to echo off the walls, but the body moves with ease. Like he’s lighter than air.

Even so, Michael slumps back against the desk and shuffles his burden against his chest; lifting David higher until he’s holding him in a bridal pose. His arms clench tight, pressing the body close to him. A quiet, hidden part of his mind whispering for David to wake up.

But he doesn’t. Michael tries to tell himself that’s a good thing, even if he only half-believes it.

Michael carries David through the rubble of the house with more care than is needed, and certainly more than he can justify given... _everything._  He works his way over the broken porch, and past the truck, parked haphazardly half-on half-off said porch, and down the drive. He eyes the back of the flatbed, considering his options, before dismissing it. He opts to head a few dozen feet away from the home and its many walking, talking heartbeats to where it’s almost quiet, and lays David down on the grass in the light of the moon overhead.

Without really meaning to, Michael settles on the ground beside David, legs curved under him, and just... _stares_.

At the wounds on David’s chest. At his gloved hands, no longer twisted with claws. At his deceptively innocent looking face. 

Michael’s back bows, the need to drink in the vampire’s features more pressing at the moment then the hunger still (forever) simmering in his stomach.

He wants to memorize it. _Needs_ to. He could tell himself it’s so he’s never so unsuspecting again. That if he wants to keep his family safe, he needs to be able to find the wolves prowling amongst the sheep.  

He could tell himself that. He _could._ But he doesn’t. He _won’t_.  

Not when David’s dead and he’s stuck where he is: halfway human, halfway not. No cure that he can see in sight, hunger burning a hole in his stomach that he knows will either be the end of him, or the end of someone else.

He’s done lying to himself.

And even if he can’t quite untangle the knotted mess of emotions David’s left him with, he knows enough to recognize that he doesn’t want to forget what the vampire looks like, because he’ll miss him when he’s dust.

So he lets his eyes coast over every line, every curve. The slope of his nose, the dip at his chin, the soft bow of his mouth.

A minute passes. Then two. Three.

He loses count.

It’s only when he catches his mother’s quiet question of “Where’s Michael?” coming from inside the house that he is jolted out of the one-sided staring contest.

But before he goes, he leans close, his lips grazing the shell of David’s ear. “I had to. To protect them.”

The words he thinks, but doesn’t dare say, ring like a bell in the air between them.

His mother calls for him again, and Michael goes back inside.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

For an hour - every minute ticking by in pulses of blood and warm breath, each one reminding Michael of what his family _is_ and what he decidedly _is not -_ Michael endures his mother’s gentle and not-so-gentle demands for answers. _Explanations_. Pleas to help her understand.

But there’s nothing he can say to make it all make sense. He doesn’t have the words to convey what happened. He can give her the facts. The wheres and the whats and the hows. Bottles of blood. Falling until you die or you fly. Fiction come to life.

But that’s not what she’s digging for, Michael knows. His grandfather explained all that already. What she’s looking for is the _why_. Michael’s why. Not Max’s, not David’s. _Michael’s_. And he can’t explain that. He _can’t._  

Because peer pressure can excuse a lot, but not the way that he guzzled from the bottle the first night, or the way he went back for seconds the next.

Or the next. 

But he tries. He does. At least, a little. But despite his (not best - not even close) efforts, it comes out in stilted one and two-word responses, sprinkled liberally with ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I’m not sure.’ 

His grandfather stands nearby during the mild inquisition. Silent. Watchful. Like he knows what it is Michael isn’t saying. 

And for all Michael knows, maybe he _does_.

Old bastard seems to know a whole hell of a lot more than he lets on.

By the end of the uncomfortable conversation, Michael’s feeling twitchy. Moving from sitting to standing, and back again. The still blood-wet walls of the kitchen closing in on him like a cage the longer he stays there.

He’s eyeing the back door like it holds the keys to his salvation when Sam and the dark-haired Frog trudge into the room, gore decorating their clothing. Sam’s face is ten different shades of grossed out as he makes a beeline for the drawer of dishtowels, wiping his face and hands clean without so much as a hello, much to their mother’s displeasure. 

“Sam! Those are for dishes!” 

Sam tosses a towel at the Frog brother, who begins to wipe his greasy face with it. “Sorry, Mom, but every last towel in the bathroom is covered in vampire guts. It’s either these or Mike’s clothes.”

A growl rumbles out of Michael at the joke, halting Sam in place, towel halfway to his face. Michael recognizes his error a second too late to stop it, so he swallows it down best he can, hoping to deflect. “Try it, see how fast I turn your favorite jacket into rags. Bet we could clean the whole kitchen with it.” 

The fear that had taken over Sam’s face fades. “That’s cold, Mike.” 

“You started it.” Michael gives him a sidelong smile, tense muscles easing when his brother returns it.

Sam clears his throat. “So, uh, Grandpa? I think we’re gonna need a new bathroom. It’s pretty gross up there”

“And new pipes.” The Frog brother interjects.

Sam nods. “Yeah, and new pipes. For sure.”

Their mother laughs, but it’s strained. “Oh, I’m sure you boys are exaggerating. It can’t be _that_ bad.”

“No, Mom. It is. You think it looks like Carrie’s prom in here? The bathroom is like if Jaws and Carrie got put in a blender together.” 

“ _Sam_.”

Michael edges his way towards the exit while Sam and their Mom fall into a familiar bickering. Unfortunately, the missing Frog choses to enter at the same time, a scowl on his face.

“Yo, Fang-Face, where’s Billy Idol’s corpse?”

The question is like a needle scratch with how quickly it silences everyone in the room.

“I carried him outside. Why?”

“Where? I was just out there dropping off the drippings from Hair-Band, and didn’t see it.”

Michael can hear heartbeats speeding up all around him, the tang of fear slowly filtering out of their pores. The scent is heady, and Michael can feel his nerves fraying further. “Well he’s out there. Ain’t my fault you’re blind.” 

“I’m telling you, it’s not out there. I _looked_.” 

Rambo gives Michael a pissy look, and the urge to tear into the boy’s throat rises swift, and hot. He closes his eyes and heaves out a long breath to force himself to calm down. “Don’t believe me? Fine. Come on. I’ll show you.”

“We’ll come too! Alan and me.” Michael swivels his head towards Sam at his outburst, confused by the expression of frightened concern on his brother’s face, and shrugs.

“Whatever. I’ll grab Dwayne on the way out, won’t be a wasted trip.”

* * *

 ~~~\/~~~

* * *

Michael carries what’s left of Dwayne’s body slung over his shoulders, Sam and the Frogs at his heels. His feet lead him back to the place where he left David’s body, ready to gloat, only...David’s gone.

 _Shit_.

Michael lays Dwayne down, and searches the ground for any evidence of the missing vampire, but there’s nothing. Not a trace.

He lifts his eyes to the treeline, searching. But if David’s out there, Michael can’t see him. Can’t feel him. He says his name, once, in a whisper. And then thinks it, at a shout. _‘David!’_ He waits, but there’s no response.

 _Shit_. **_Shit_** **.**

“Shit." 

Sam makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cough. “Could he have, ya know, disintegrated or something?” 

The less-annoying Frog, Alan, Michael thinks his name is, answers. “It’s possible. In ‘Destroy All Vampires’ issue 22, there was a vamp that only dusted after the stake was pulled out of its heart.”

Rambo snorts. “Yeah, but that happened as soon as the stake was removed, Al. Not however long it took Death-Breath here to carry Blondie outside.” The boy narrows his eyes at Michael, but Michael doesn’t have time to care. His anger and hunger pushed to the side in the wake of David’s sudden disappearance, and all it might mean. 

Because if David’s alive...if he’s _alive_...well, Michael’s not sure if the feeling stuttering through his heart is hope or fear.

“Could be a delayed reaction? We know they all go out different, and this one was clearly shish-kebobbed.” Alan offers. 

“Maybe. Or maybe Renfield over here didn’t actually _kill_ his master. Maybe he just made it _look_ like he did, and then first chance he got, he carried him out here so he could sneak off to lick his wounds without us knowing.”

“Nuh-uh. No way. Mike killed him. Stabbed him straight through the heart, didn’t ya, Mike?”

Michael tears his eyes away from the skyline and tries to focus on his brother. “...Yeah. I did.” It’s not a lie, it’s just that it also may not have _worked_.  

Michael doesn’t say that though.

Even if he knows maybe he _should_.

“See, guys? Mike says he killed him, then he killed him. The body must of turned to dust after Mike brought him out here. Those books don’t know everything.”

Sam’s expression when he looks at Michael is pleading, asking him without words to please tell him he’s not wrong. Michael wants to relieve his doubts. Wants to make him feel safe again. But he can’t.

Not when David’s body is gone and Michael’s still halfway to death - creeping closer and closer to the finish line with every slow beat of his heart.

Not when there’s a whisper on the wind calling his name that Michael wants to follow.

An arm wraps around Michael’s waist, jolting him back to the here and now. He glances to his side, and sees his brother giving him a distressed smile. “Come on, Big Bro. Mom’s waiting.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that are reading so far. I hope you continue to enjoy!

* * *

When cleanup is finished, and the Frog brothers have wandered off back home, Michael settles down to sleep the day away slumped against the wall in his grandfather’s workshop. As far as he can get from both the rising sun and the humans in the house.

The movement of the sun overhead makes his skin itch while he rests, but he doesn’t wake. There’s the sound of hammering, maybe a drill? It seems both hideously loud, and so very far away at the same time. Once or twice, he catches voices. Soft at times, interspersed with louder, more anxious tones.

He thinks his mother may have tried to get him to wake up at one point, only to be lead away by her father, who sounded more resigned than anything else. “Let the boy rest, Lucy.” 

When he is finally able to shrug off the shackles of the day, his eyes open to Star hovering just in his line of sight, the backlight silhouette of Sam standing a few steps behind.

“Michael?” 

“Star.” Michael rubs at the gumminess in the corners of his eyes. “What time is it?”

“It’s after seven, Mike.” Sam bobs closer, frowning.

Star gives Michael a watery smile. “You’ve slept the whole day.” 

Michael sighs, rocking his neck back and forth to get the crink out. “Figured as much.” He moves to stand, thrown off kilter when Star reaches out to help him, her hand settling warm against his elbow. Her scent hits him like a hurricane when he’s upright, and he forces himself to step back and away, putting distance between them. Her face falls, hurt clouding her features.

“Star-” 

Sam clears his throat, offering a welcome interruption. “Got something you wanna tell us, Mike?”

Mike swipes a hand through his hair, eyeing his brother through the fall of greasy curls. He needs a shower. Bad. “Not really.”

Irritated, Sam points an accusing finger at Michael. “You’re still a vampire, Mike!”

Hunger a pulsating ache through his entire body, Michael can’t help the feral smile that slips onto his mouth. “What gave it away?”

Sam shivers. “That, Mike! Right there! Where you look at people like they’re a chicken nugget. You did it to Edgar last night too, when he pissed you off.”

Michael blinks, breaking eye contact, and heaving out a long sigh. “Sorry, Sammy.” 

“Are you, Mike?”

Michael hates that his brother has to ask. Hates even more that he has to think about it before he can respond. “Yeah, I am. I’m not gonna eat you, Sam. Or anyone, if I can help it.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “If you can **_help_ ** it? That’s not reassuring, Mike!”

Michael shrugs. “Best I got. Take it or leave it.” In the silence that follows, Michael focuses on the myriad sounds of the house. He can hear Laddie’s calm heartbeat in the direction of the kitchen. Grandpa’s is out back somewhere, near his shed. And his mother’s is slow - too slow - upstairs. Worry spikes in his veins. “Mom okay?”

Sam shuffles on his feet. “Cried herself to sleep about an hour ago. Think Grandpa might’ve dosed her with something, not sure.” 

Michael swallows a bubble of nausea. “What happened?” 

“She spent most of the morning trying to wake you up. Only stopped when Grandpa told her - point blank - that you’re still half, and that there might be no fixing you. She - uh - didn’t take it well.”

“Shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

Michael stares at the ceiling, towards his mother’s room, hating what he’s brought upon his family.

“David’s still alive. Isn’t he, Michael?”

Michael turns his attention towards Star, wishing that he could say something that would wipe the fear from her eyes, but that’s not their lives. “I don’t know for sure, but...I think so.”

Star’s arms lift up to wrap tight around her chest. “It was Max’s blood I drank. I didn’t know it then, but... _I felt it_ \- both Laddie and me did - when he died.” Her head shakes back and forth, like a nervous tick. “But you - It wasn’t Max. It was David. You drank David’s blood.” Her voice is strong and steady as she rattles off the facts as Michael also sees them.

The nights that followed his first foray into the cavern are flimsy, foggy things. He can easily remember parts of them. Sharing a joint (or three) with Paul. Laying his head on Star’s lap as she pierced his ear. Throwing back gulp after gulp from the bottle, until it ran dry. (But there was always another, slipped into his hand without him even having to ask.) Dancing down to the train tracks, Marko laughing at him when he tripped on a tree root. Dwayne clapping a hand on his shoulder, helping him up.

Wandering beyond the main room of the cave, stumbling after David. Going where, he can’t recall. It’s a dizzy, jumbled mess. But if he stretches his thoughts back, deep into the recesses of his mind, he tastes copper and salt and something infinitely sweet. Can feel the scratch of stubble against his cheek, the press of fingertips at the back of his head.

Michael shakes the memory off, and nods.

“Ugh, gross.” Sam sticks his tongue out, like he can actually taste it, giving a full-body shudder. But then his head perks up, eyes bright and hopeful. “But that’s good, right? If David’s still alive, and he’s the one that turned you, then we just need to finish what we started, and you’ll be fixed!”

It’s Michael’s turn to lift his eyebrows into his hair. “We? I don’t think so. You’re sitting this one out.”

“What? Mike, come on! I can-”

Michael growls. “ **No** , Sam. You’re not sticking your neck out for me again. Whatever's happening, I’ll deal with it.” 

“Mike-”

“I’m more than half-gone already, Sam. And if David -” Michael shakes his head, unable - or maybe just unwilling - to put voice to his thoughts. “If I can’t be fixed, then you’ll be risking Mom losing both of us. And I’m not willing to do that to her. Are you?”

Sam gulps, face falling. “No, course not. But, Mike - we can fix you. I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah? I’m not.”

“That’s the vampire part of ya talking, Bro. Don’t listen to it. It’s a shit-sucking asshole. You’re better than it.”

Michael barks out a laugh, surprised by how good it feels. “Thanks.” 

“It’s what I’m here for.” Michael jolts when Sam slaps his hands together, rubbing them against each other. “Okay, so we need a plan! Even if you are being a dope and won’t let me help directly. I can call the Frogs and-”

“No!” The thought of the Frogs coming back around, offering their brand of _advice_ wakes the resting anger inside Michael. A vision of tearing into the throat of the one who _wouldn't_ _stop prodding_ him last night coming into focus at the same time. It makes the hunger grow. “No Frogs. No one else this time.” 

“What? Mike, don’t be an idiot, you’re gonna need help.”

“No one else, Sam. I’ll handle this my way.”

“You’re crazy, Mike. Star, tell him that he’s crazy.”

“...I think Michael’s right.” 

The corner of Michael’s mouth twitches up in a smile at Star’s support. The smile blooms true when Sam tosses his hands in the air and rolls his eyes. 

“Of _course_ you’re on his side. Ugh!” His brother rubs at the back of his neck, and tries again. “Look, Edgar and Alan can be annoying sometimes, I know. But they know what they’re talking about with this stuff. They can _help_.” 

Michael tilts his head to the side, cracking his neck with a satisfying pop, and looks at his brother. At the obstinate expression on the young teen’s face, Michael knows that he has to be up front about his reasoning, even if that means scaring the shit out of him.

“Sam? I’m **hungry**. All the time. And it’s getting **worse**. People - all of you - smell like **food**. But you and Mom, Grandpa...Star… you all smell like family too. The Frogs **don’t**. And the bandana wearing asshole makes it worse by pissing me off every five seconds.” Michael clenches his teeth, willing the rising hunger his little rant has brought up back down where it belongs. “You put those two in front of me anytime soon, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself.”  

The color drains from his brother’s face in time with his pulse ratcheting up. “Jesus, Mike…”

Michael heaves out a long breath. “Just... Let me handle this, Sam. Please? Stay here, help fix the house. Take care of Mom. And let me figure this out.”

Sam’s mouth opens and shut a half-dozen times. “Wait a minute. Fix the house? _Take care of Mom?_ You’re talking like you’re not coming back!” 

Michael holds his brother’s gaze, making sure that he catches just how serious he is. “I’m gonna try, but...I might not. Just do it, alright?”

Sam’s expression is sour, and Michael worries he may be gearing up to argue, but instead his little brother nods. “Fine. But you better come back, Mike, or your wardrobe is forfeit. Deal?”

Michael squeezes his brother's shoulder, just for a second. “Deal.” He catches Star’s gaze as he walks through the door. “Stay safe. Please?” 

There’s a frown tugging her lips downward. “You too.” 

“I’ll try.” 

He grabs his jacket up off the floor from where it had been acting as a makeshift pillow, and leaves them behind. He pauses on his way out of the house, impressed by how much better it looks just a day later. Everyone must have been working on it the whole time he was sleeping. 

A twinge of guilt flutters around his heart, but he doesn’t give it a chance to take root before heading outside and mounting his bike and skidding down the drive in a cloud of moonlight dust.   

Barely a month since he arrived in Santa Carla, even less since he met David and the rest, but he knows the way to the hotel by heart.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The sunken hotel is dark as a tomb when Michael arrives. His eyes adjust with ease between one blink and the next though, so he’s in no danger of tripping over his feet as he makes his way to one of the available torches stacked in a crevice by the entrance. With a flick of his lighter, it catches fire, casting dancing shadows on the walls around him. 

He carries it down the stairs, searching the space with his eyes, while also stretching out his other senses to see what he can pick up.

He can hear water dripping down the passageway beyond Star’s bed, and the sound of waves crashing against the wall on the other side is clear as a bell. There’s a whistling of wind against stone further away. He stops by one of the barrels, lighting the contents, and scaring the pigeons nesting overhead from their roost.

He can hear so much more now than he ever could as a human, but even with all the enhanced senses, he can’t pick out anything that would betray another person nearby. 

Still, the place doesn’t _feel_ empty… 

“David?”

There’s no response, not that Michael expected one. Only, it feels like he’s being watched, so he tries again. “David, if you’re here, I - I just want to talk. No tricks.”

Michael scratches through the thick curls at the top of his scalp, regretting not taking the time to get cleaned up before heading out.

“I know you’re not dead. I _know_ it. Because, I’m… I’m _still..."_ He runs his tongue over his chapped lower lip. "Your blood’s in my veins. Right? So killing Max…” 

He slouches down onto the edge of the fountain, hanging his head low, so that all he can see is the tops of his shoes and a stray bottlecap laying in the dust at his feet. He kicks at it, and another bird goes flapping off its perch in search of peace.

“Star’s human again. So’s Laddie. But you know that too.” 

No one answers. No one steps out of the shadows, but the feeling of being watched doesn’t ebb. Irritation crawls up his spine at the sensation. “ _Come on_ , David. Don’t leave me here alone to talk to the damn pigeons.”

He waits, sitting on the fountain, glancing around the space that has no business feeling as familiar and welcoming as it does.

Several minutes tick by. Michael’s own sluggish heartbeat the loudest thing in the hotel.

“Shit. Maybe you’re really not here...it, it _feels_ like you’re here. But who knows, maybe I’m losing it.” Michael lets out a humourless laugh. “Like I’ve got anything left to lose.”

“But, if you _are_...I, shit…” Michael slumps further down, holding his head in his hands, his thoughts all tangled.

 _‘What am I supposed to do now? I’m hungry and angry and scared and I thought you were my_ friend _, but you just… I didn’t want to kill you I don’t want to kill_ anyone _I just want to live oh god I don’t want to_ die _and I want my family to be_ safe _and how can they be if you, if I’m_... _I need to talk to you, I need you to... I need…’_

It’s all spinning around and around, until it narrows down to just one, simple plea. _‘Help me.’_

“Please?”

But if David hears him, he doesn’t answer.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The first fingers of dawn are tickling the sky when Michael returns to the house.

It’s quiet, but light filters out through the boards holding the front together when he gets there. He eases the door open slow, but it creaks anyway.

Star’s awake and sitting on the sofa and staring into the destroyed fireplace when he enters. Her feet are curled up under her, the same skirt she was wearing yesterday floating around her. It looks a little cleaner, like she spent some time wiping the soot and detritus from it, but the evidence of its presence remains.

Michael frowns, realizing that he should have thought to pack some of her things from the cave while he was there. But in all the hours he’d spent just... _waiting,_ it hadn’t occurred to him to do so.

“Did you find him?” Star’s voice is subdued, resignation or maybe just numb certainty, bleeding out through it.

Michael shakes his head, before realizing that she’s not looking at him, and offering her a terse “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Michael tilts his head at her, lost. “For what?”

She lifts her chin towards him, the lamp on the table beside her illuminating half her face, and casting the rest in shadows. “For everything. If I hadn’t…I didn’t want to hurt _anyone_ , but it was getting so hard to...” Her voice trembles and she looks away. “Some nights I thought I would die from how hungry I was. I thought it would eat me alive from the inside out. It _hurt_ _so much_.”

Michael‘s feet carry him to the sofa, and he slide onto the cushion next to her, close, but not quite trusting himself enough to touch. “How long?”

Star’s mouth quicks up in a bitter smile. “Since last summer. If we hadn’t gotten Max… I don’t think I would have been able to hold out much longer.”

Michael’s floored by the statement. Star had gone a whole _year_ , and Michael was cracking after just a few _days_? “How...how did you resist?"

Star pulls her lower lip into her mouth with her teeth, worrying at the flesh. “At first, it wasn’t so bad. I only...I had only drunk a little from the bottle when David gave it to me.” She glances at him, and while there is no judgement in her gaze, Michael feels it all the same.

The difference between why he’s hanging by a thread, and she’d managed for a whole year before he came along is clear: Star had sipped, but Michael had _gorged_.

She must see something of his own self-condemnation on his face, because her expression softens. Her voice low, and kind when she speaks. “I hadn’t liked how it tasted, but he was...persuasive.” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug, the scarf wrapped around her slipping with the action. She plays with the fringe on it where it pools in her lap. “They all were. So I drank, a little. And things were...okay. For awhile. I thought I could handle it. But by the time Laddie came around, I was crumbling. So I stole sips from the bottle, when I could. Just enough...to hold on.”

Michael swallows, throat and mouth parched, and runs a tongue against too-dry lips. “When did Laddie…?

A tender smile lightens Star’s face at the mention of the young boy. “This winter. I don’t...I don’t really know what happened to him. He doesn’t talk about it, and David never offered.” She brushes her hand through her hair, pushing it back over her shoulder, exposing her decorated ear and the column of her throat to Michael’s gaze.

He looks away.

“I’d thought - I’d thought he’d done it for _me._ To push me over the edge. But doing that to an innocent little boy? It made me so _angry_.” She looks back to Michael, catching his eye despite his efforts to avoid just that. “And looking after him made it easier for me to resist too.”

Star laughs, the sound sullen and tired. “I’d been so smug about it. Started snatching the bottle when David could see, made sure he knew I was keeping Laddie from snapping. He’d always smile and laugh, like it was a game. Maybe it was...”

Star goes silent, and Michael thinks about Laddie lasting six months with David and the rest, Star looking out for him. Remembers the careful way that Dwayne was with the boy, patient and almost kind when he’d speak to him. How Paul and Marko would help him get up or down from things in the cave when he’d lift his arms.

And Michael thinks maybe the kid had more than just Star keeping him safe.

When Star speaks again, she’s staring into the fireplace. Cleaned but broken and utterly unusable. “But now? Knowing about Max, and what he wanted with your family? I wonder if turning Laddie was David’s idea at all.”

Michael stares into the fireplace where the elder vamp met his end, and the thinks that Star’s probably right. Thinks that Laddie was a victim of Max’s odd attempt to build an evil little suburban-style vampire family.

Which brings Michael back to his own half-creation. Wondering how he ended up with David’s blood if the bottle had - previously - been filled with Max’s.

Especially if Max had ordered David to bring Michael into the fold like he’d claimed.

And why lie to Star, telling her that he would be her first kill, if that had never been the plan?

Just what the hell had David been playing at with Michael?

And, if Michael’s being honest with himself, the question he most wants answered? 

_Why him?_

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

When he feels Michael drawing close to the hotel, David assumes he’s coming to finish what he’d started.

Come to stab a proper wooden stake through his heart this time, rejecting David’s gift once and for all.

It’s luck, really, that David survived. He knows that. Luck that Michael didn’t know that bone wouldn’t kill him, and luck that David had been left alone long enough to flee on a wing and a prayer; skittering through the night in a maelstrom of pain.

It had taken all his strength to snatch a drugged out vagrant from the beach, and he’d only been able to do _that_ thanks to the man having wandered close to the hotel’s entrance. The blood had given him enough of a boost to be able to drag himself deep into the hotel to rest and heal. The damage to his heart extensive, if not quite lethal, and he knows it will be several days before he’s functional again.

But now Michael is here, ready - David assumes - to be rid of the pesky immortality that David’s bestowed upon him so he can run off into the sunrise with Star.

David sneers at the idea of the two of them living short little lives together, happy little humans with happy little nine to five jobs, while David’s left with _nothing_. It makes him burn hot with rage.

When Michael’s footfalls hit the stone steps outside, David is eager to swoop down from his resting place. To tackle the human and make him feel a _fraction_ of the pain that he’s been dealt.   

And that pain is _immeasurable_. For it’s not just the physical pain of being shoved upon a pair of antlers, but the pain of losing his boys - his family - that David is enduring.

He’s lost everything - _everything_ \- in his desperate bid for Michael (and it _was_ desperate, David can see that now). If he’d been just a little more patient and a little less cocky, his boys would still be alive, and Michael would be well and truly _his_.  

But he’d been drunk on the idea of Michael from the moment he’d laid eyes on him on the boardwalk, well before Max had set his sights on Lucy, or Star had seen him through the crowd. He’d wanted him with an intensity that wouldn’t be denied. 

And what David wanted, David _got_.  

And that was the crux of the problem right there. He’d treated Michael as any other prize to be won, not recognizing that the killer’s instinct that drew him to the human - the instinct that he wanted to hone and mold and sup on for eternity - would translate into brutal resistance. 

He’d counted on Michael wanting what David had to offer as much as David wanted _him_.

And Michael _did_ want it, David knows. The human can refuse to acknowledge it, but David knows the truth. There was no denying the way he’d taken to the blood and the boys and to _David_ , as if he was _born_ for it, as if there was no where else he’d ever want to be.

Only...Michael wanted his own family too. Had people he cared for - _loved_ \- to hold onto. That wasn’t something that David or his boys - or Star even - had when they were turned. And in the end, that made all the difference.

And while he _wants_ to confront Michael, his body is in no shape to allow it. Instead he can do nothing but stay hidden, and _listen._  

Listen to both the words that Michael _says_ , and to the ones that he restrains to his thoughts. Thoughts so loud in their distress that he may as well be screaming them into the night.  

Listen as Michael paces, poking at the contents in the front room, but never delving further into the caverns.

Listen as Michael sits, and waits, and _hopes_.

Listen when Michael gets up, and walks away. His thoughts as torn and confused and uncertain as they were when he arrived.  

Listen when he throws a leg over his bike, and revs the engine. Listen when he says into the wind, into the night, into nothing at all: “Same time tomorrow?”

Listen when he leaves.

Now, with the hotel empty once more, David’s rage has dwindled to embers, and he wonders if maybe, just maybe, something can be salvaged from the mess he’s created. 

His family is gone. He knows that. Had felt their deaths as keenly as his own, but maybe he hasn’t quite lost _everything_.

At least, not yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I added a violence tag to the fic. I'm not planning on getting TOO graphic, but the further into this story I get, the more it seems likely that at least SOME level of violence will be depicted, and so I thought I should add the tag to be safe. I'll make sure to preface any chapters where it DOES as well.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is reading, and hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Michael camps out in the workshop again, only this time, his grandfather is less willing to give him his space. As evidenced by the boot nudging his ribs none-to-gently at half past three in the afternoon.

“Come on you, up.”

Michael blinks in the direction of the voice, seeing the world through a blurry, unfocused haze. “Huh?”

“You wanna sleep what’s left of your life away, do it somewhere else. I got work to do.” The old man nudges him again. “Now go on, get.”

Michael holds a hand out, pleading for mercy. “K, Fine. Give me a sec.” He sits up, and makes the long, arduous climb to his feet, his grandfather offering him no help whatsoever.

His grandfather ‘hrumphs’ when he’s vertical - using the wall as only a small means of support _thankyouverymuch_. “Sam’s room should be empty, but I’d appreciate it if you stop and spoke with Lucy before re-entering dreamland.”

Michael pulls his eyelids open to look at his grandfather, seeing the standard level of annoyance he always wears coupled with honest concern. Michael digs into the shallow reserve of his energy to respond. “She okay?”

Grandpa snorts. “Hell no, she ain’t okay kid. I did my best to keep her clear of the damn bloodsuckers her whole life, but three weeks here, and her son’s one of ‘em. Not exactly the fresh start she was hoping for coming back here.”

Michael frowns, anger trying to dig its claws into him, but not finding any purchase. “You _knew_ but you still stayed here? And you let us-”

“Santa Carla ain’t unique, kid. There’s vamps out there all over the damn place. Other nasty things too. Better the devil you know, my opinion.”

“Yeah, well your opinion got me good as dead, Grandpa.”

“Wasn’t my opinion that did that to you, Mike, that was your own poor life choices. Maybe think before you go chasing after blonds on bikes next time, huh?”

Michael thinks about deflecting, saying that Star’s not blonde, but what would be the point? They both know that’s not who he means. “Little late now." 

His grandfather hums, but doesn’t argue, opting to settle down at his workbench instead.

Feeling dismissed, Michael slumps one step at a time towards the door, stopping before he crosses the threshold and glancing back over his shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m suppose to say to her.” 

His grandfather pops the lense up on his work glasses, and gives Michael a long and searching look that makes him squirm. “Maybe start by assuring her that she isn’t in any danger of having her throat torn out by her little boy? Think ya can manage that? And mean it?” 

Michael swallows. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Make sure you do. Now get, I’m busy.”

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The radio is playing in the kitchen, tuned to one of the oldie stations that his Mom likes so much. Michael can hear his mother quietly singing along, missing a word here and there, no real passion or energy in her vocals.

Sam’s off-key voice joins in on the chorus, a little louder and more upbeat. It bolsters their mother’s notes some. She sounds happier, Michael thinks, when Sam is singing with her.

Michael leans against the doorway for support, but also just to watch as his mother and brother put a platter of sandwiches together with familiar motions. It’s nice. _Normal_. He doesn’t want to interrupt and ruin it with his existence.

“Sam can you pass the must- Oh!” His mother gasps, hand clutching at her chest when she catches sight of Michael in the doorway. “Michael! I didn’t know you were standing there." 

He gives her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mom. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Maybe try not creeping in doorways then, huh, Mike?” Sam eyes Michael, annoyance radiating off him, along with a small measure of fear. The scent of which is mingling with that of their Mother’s into an aroma that is both appealing and repulsive at the same time.

He shakes it off. Glad at least that he’s too tired to be much bothered by hunger. It’s a nice change of pace to how he feels when it’s dark, and the constant thrum of blood through veins calls at him to feed. 

Right now though, all he wants to do is get back to sleep.

“Are you hungry?” His Mom asks, innocent enough, but Michael is able to pinpoint the exact moment she catches what she just said, her eyes going wide, and mouth falling open a sliver.

Michael aims - what he hopes - is a calming smile at her. “I’m okay, Mom.”

He considers his attempt a success when the fear ebbs a fraction. “How - uh, how about a sandwich?”

He shakes his head. The thought of a sandwich doing nothing for him. “Nah. I’m good. But thanks.” 

Her mouth pinches down, resolve settling on her features as she tries again. “Are you sure? When was the last time you had something? Star says that you can still eat normal food.” 

“You’ve been speaking with Star?” 

His mother blinks at him, her expression incredulous. “She’s been staying here for the last two days, Michael. Of course we’ve spoken.”

Sam snickers around a piece of cheese he’s popped in his mouth. “They went clothes shopping this morning.” 

“Sam, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Sam grumbles out something else, but Michael has no idea what, too arrested by the idea of Star and his mother _shopping_ together. “You took Star shopping?”

His mother nods, finishing another sandwich by slicing it into equal halves. “Her and that poor little boy needed new clothes for their trip, and nothing we had here was going to work.”

Michael tilts his head to the side. “Trip?”

Sam and their Mom share a look across the kitchen table. When they turn back to him his Mother looks sad, but Sam just looks nervous. “Yeah, Mike. Laddie’s father has been looking for him. There’s a missing persons report and everything.”

His mother nods along, pulling out a chair and settling into the seat. She looks exhausted, strain evident in the dark patches beneath her eyes, and the shake in her hands. “I was going to call it in, but Star asked me not to. And after...well, I suppose she has her reasons.” She pulls a sandwich close to her, fingering the plate, but not picking it up. “She’s going to ride with him home. Says she wants to make sure it’s safe before leaving him with his family.” 

“Huh. When?”

“End of the week. They’re taking a bus.”

“Okay.” It’s a surprise, but not a big one. And in truth, Michael’s glad that Star’s getting away for a while. She’s more than earned it, and it’ll be good for her to get some distance from everything. 

Sam narrows his eyes at Michael, disbelief playing across his face. “You’re not mad?”

Michael feels like he’s lost a thread he didn’t know he was supposed to be holding. “Why would I be mad?”

“That your girlfriend’s leaving and she didn’t tell you?”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Sam." He doesn't say it unkindly. Just a simple statement of fact. Whatever is between the two of them doesn't reach that level of commitment, especially seeing as how Michael can't trust himself to so much as touch her at present. "Besides, it makes sense she’d want to see Laddie home. She’s been looking after him for months now.”

Silence settles in the gaps between them, Sam staring at Michael like he has two heads, their Mom just looking at him with a thoughtful expression.  

Eventually, she releases a long, unhappy sigh. “Why don’t you sit down and have a sandwich with us, Michael. We made plenty. Please?” 

“Mom…” Michael starts to deny the offer again, but the resigned expression on her face - like she already knows his answer - combined with his grandfather’s command to make her feel better stops him. Caving, he slides into a chair with a wane grin. “Got any roast beef?”

His mother’s smile is bright, hopeful. She grabs a sandwich from the stack, and drops it on a plate for him. He takes it from her, careful to avoid touching her hand directly, and picks at the crust. Any hope he had of being able to avoid taking a bite is squashed by the way she watches him, waiting.

He lifts it up, mentally preparing himself. The smell isn’t awful; the scent of the meat almost appealing, even if it is drowned out by mustard. The taste, when he finally bites down and begins to chew isn’t as bad as he’d expected either, it’s more...bland. Like one of those rice cake things. All texture and no substance.

Still, he can manage this, he thinks. He gestures to her with the sandwich, and says, mouth half-full, “Thanks.”

“Michael! Chew and swallow first." His mother tosses her hands up in the air, exasperated. "I swear you two. It’s like you’ve been raised by wolves.”

Sam snorts, his Mom giggles, and Michael chokes his food down around the laughter shaking him.

Easy as that, the tension in the room breaks, and it’s like nothing at all has changed.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The sun sets, Michael wakes up, and immediately empties the contents of his stomach into the trash can beside Sam’s bed.

So maybe a few things have changed.

When he’s done, Star is sitting on the edge of the mattress holding a glass of water out to him. “I promise this will help.”

He eyes it, and her, before deciding it’s worth a shot and drinking it down, sip by careful sip. It cools the fire in his throat, and he nods his thanks. 

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you. Solid food is hard to handle on an empty stomach.”

Michael stares at her, unblinking, trying to parse out her statement. “Huh?”

The corners of Star’s lips lift, eyes crinkling. “Your body’s confused. At least, that’s how mine always felt. If you eat too much, too quick, it’ll reject it. It’s better if you stick to small bites of things, rather than big meals.”

Michael finishes off the glass and stands, scrubbing a hand through hair that he’s yet to wash. He makes a face at the cruddy strands, amazed that no one has said anything to him about it yet. “Why even bother?” 

“Because it helps. With the cravings. Not much, but...a little is better than nothing.” 

Michael takes that in, resolving to start eating solid food again, one mouthful at a time, if it’ll keep him from killing someone.

It’ll be worth the nausea. 

“Thanks.” He gives her a quick smile, and then moves past her to his own room for a change of clothes, surprised when he presses the door open to see that the destroyed mattress has been removed, leaving the place in relatively decent shape - albeit absent a usable bed. 

 _Huh._ He really should feel guilty at how much everyone is getting done while he sleeps, but really he’s just grateful they’re leaving him be.

He’s rooting through his closet when he realizes Star has followed him. “Are you heading back to the cave tonight?”

“Yeah. Unless you have any other suggestions as to where else he might be?”

There’s a pause before she answers. Her tone muted. “The boardwalk. But I’m guessing you don’t want to go there.”

Hunger flairs wild in Michael at the vision of a hundred overheated bodies all pressed together like sardines as they mill about the boards. He licks his lips, flinching when he realizes just what it is he’s imagining, and croaks out a broken: “No. Bad idea.”

Something like understanding overtakes Star’s face. “ _Oh, Michael_.” She reaches out a hand towards him, but he steps back, avoiding the contact.

“Don’t.” He turns away, back towards his closet, and tears the dirty shirt off over his head, sliding a clean one in place, only to yank it back off again when it just highlights how grimy he is. Anger and annoyance rear their heads for no reason other than they are default states of emotions for him these days. “I smell like roadkill. Any chance the bathroom’s working again?”

Star shakes her head. “No, not yet. We’ve been using the kitchen sink.”

Michael snorts. “Great. That’s great.”

Still, it’s better than nothing. He grabs the rest of his things, pausing at his door long enough to figure out where everyone else is, hoping to avoid bumping into someone. Happy for his enhanced hearing for a change. 

Satisfied that he’s not going to run into anyone (his mother and Sam are in her room, and his Grandpa is in his workshop) he heads to the kitchen, passing by Laddie where the boy is laying on his stomach on the couch, a coloring book of all things in front of him. 

It’s cumbersome, cleaning up in the kitchen sink, but he manages. Filling the basin with lukewarm water and dunking his head into it wholesale, then rubbing a scratchy cloth over his upper body. It’s not as satisfying as a shower would have been, but at least he no longer smells like a dumpster.   

As clean as he’s going to get, he ducks beside the fridge and dresses, listening to Star and Laddie talking in the living room as he laces his boots.

“You’ll stay when we get there. Right?” The boy’s voice is small, nervous, underscored by the rapid offbeat pace of his heart.

“Of course. For as long as you need me.”

“Okay. Can we go to that shop tomorrow, the one with the fudge?”

Star laughs, a tinkling sort of a sound. It’s nice. Sweet. “Sure, Laddie. Just don’t eat too much, or you’ll get sick again.”

Excitement spikes through the boy, coming out in a high pitched yip of a sound. “I won’t! Cross my heart.”

Michael's glad things are working out for them at the very least. He heads for the back door, prying it open with care so it doesn’t draw any attention and makes his way towards his bike. He's a half-dozen steps from it when his grandfather calls out his name. 

“Sneaking outta here soon as the sun sets, huh?” 

“I’m not sneaking, Grandpa.” He says, even though that was precisely what he was doing, and they both know it. “Just going out.”

“Can wherever you’re going keep until after the rest of us sacks are asleep and you’re still wired?” 

Michael flicks his eyes towards his bike. It seems so close, and yet so out of reach. “...I guess.”

“Good! Then get on over here and put that strength of yours to some use. Got us a new toilet and sink need carrying upstairs.” His grandfather gives him a smile just this shy of evil. “Then, when that’s done, you can help me fix the fence.” 

Michael squints, baffled by the old man. But what else is new? “It’s dark out, Grandpa.”

“And? Last I checked you were nonfunctional when the sun was up. Seeing as how it was your friends that smashed up the place, it’s past time you lend a hand to fix it. Now come on, I’m old and tired, and wanna be able to take a shit again before I go to bed.”

When Michael arrives at the hotel hours later, there’s no one there but the birds.

He stays until dawn anyway.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Michael’s life - such as it is - continues on in the same vein for the next few days and nights. Sleeping all day, lending a hand for an hour or five around the house when he wakes up, and ending his evenings talking to the pigeons and the ghost of David at the hotel.

Rinse, repeat.

His hunger’s become a constant, dull ache at the back of his skull, lacing down through his limbs, and finding a center in his chest and gut. Most of the time, it feels manageable. But Michael’s sure that has more to do with how he’s sequestered himself away from all humans, except his family.

He doesn’t think he’d be doing so well otherwise.

Even so, he has hopes that he’ll be able to manage for a few weeks more before something has to give. (Though he tries not to think too hard about what that will be.) 

It’s on the fourth evening when he wakes up and knows that he needs to leave the house and not come back until he has everything under control. Because on the fourth day, Michael _dreams_.  

It’s innocent enough at first. Just a mish-mash of images, memories. Of Michael falling. Falling forever into the fog beneath the train tracks. David swooping in to catch him like some wicked guardian angel.

He remembers holding onto the vampire. Clinging for his life until a cheek pressed against his, soft lips tickling against his ear as a voice made of pure sin whispered into the shell. “Let go, Michael, and _fly_.”

And Michael remembers, in the depths of his dreams, that he _had_ , and they _did_. The five of them tearing out over the night, laughing with abandon at the pure joy of the act. Free and wild and forever.  

He dreams about returning to the cave, his legs jelly beneath him when he came to land. David’s arm wrapping around his waist to tug him upright. An easy, affectionate smile spread wide over his handsome face. Genuine, and fond. Michael recalls how that smile had made his knees weak for a reason that had nothing to do with flying, but with something just as exhilarating. Just as frightening. 

The memory leads him down deeper into the cavern, tripping behind David. Drunk on blood and wine and flight and _him_. There’s stone against his back, and David at his front. There’s a hand at his neck, in his hair, and a mouth against his.

It’s tender and warm and _delicious,_ until it’s hard and hot and demanding, and Michael is clinging to David again. Gasping for breath as lips trail a path down his chin and jaw, along his neck.  

Teeth nipping along the line, an arm constricting around his back, tugging his head to the side by the hair at his nape. A pinch where his neck meets his shoulder, pain and pleasure swirling together as lips and tongue ply at the tender flesh. Lust igniting like a livewire, Michael buries his head against David’s neck, biting down, _down_ until something salty and exquisite coats his tongue, and he’s grinding against David, unable to get enough and wanting - needing - _more_. 

When David kisses him again, there is blood on both their lips.

The scene morphs, and Michael is back at the bonfire slaughter. Smoke and blood and fear carrying to him on the wind. Only this time Michael throws himself towards instead of away, fangs sinking deep into flesh, hot life spilling over his lips and down his throat until his hunger is sated. 

The twisted landscape gives way. Michael is home and Sam is singing in the bath, and Michael has never been so hungry in all his life. Nanook is outside and there is nothing to stop him save himself, but he can’t - he doesn’t - and so Michael tears into Sam’s throat and drinks and drinks and _drinks_.

It’s the evening when Max revealed his plan and David didn’t die, and Michael is weak and useless and Sam never met the Frogs, and Michael’s family is dying and he doesn’t care - _he doesn’t care_ \- because he has a new family and his mouth waters at the taste of his old one sitting on his tongue and he asks ‘ _Who’s next?_ ’ 

Michael wakes up on the fourth evening on his newly acquired (slightly used) mattress, cold sweat beading down his face, hard and hungry and _desperate_. 

The house around him feels like a prison, too many walls holding him in place, and all he can hear - all he can focus on - is the rushing blood passing through shallow veins, so easy to reach if he only tries.

He clenches his hands into fists, deliberately digging long nails into the pads of his palms until he bleeds, lapping the liquid up in long passes of his tongue. But it’s too cool, too dull. It does little to stem the need pulsing within him, but it's enough for him to drag his body from the bed, and over to his closet.

With careful, quiet movements, he packs his duffle and heads to his window.

He’s not going to chance walking through the house when he’s feeling like this. 

He pushes aside the heavy blanket he'd tacked up over the glass to keep the sun out, but as nothing in his life is easy these days, he is forced to wait for the heartbeats signaling his mother and grandfather’s presence on the porch to retreat if he wants to make his escape unseen.

While he waits, a swirl of fabric by his door snags his attention. When the door presses open, he curses the lack of a lock. “Michael?”

“Star, now’s not a great time.”

Liquid brown eyes seek out his, and though it feels like he’s only holding it together by a thread, he gives in and meets her gaze. There’s no judgment there, only understanding. “You’re leaving?”

He nods. “I have to. I can’t...it’s getting worse. I need to figure this out, and I can’t do that here.”

Her arms lift up to cross in front of her chest, and she looks away. “Laddie and I are heading out tomorrow too.”

“I know.” He swipes his tongue over his lower lip, dragging a bead of sweat inside. “Can you - can you tell my Mom and Sam that I… _shit_.” He readjusts the strap of the duffle against his hand while he readjusts his thoughts. “I don’t know, can you just tell them something that gets them to not come looking for me. Please?” 

She gives him a sad smile. He kind of hates how often she has cause to wear that particular expression. He’s always thought she was made for happy sun-filled ones. He hopes she has more chances for the latter kind in the future. “Of course, Michael.”

“Thanks, Star.” The heartbeats at the front porch move away, and Michael slips a leg out of the window. “And take care.”

He’s pushing his bike down the drive, engine off, when he hears her respond.

“Goodbye, Michael.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been fond of the 'vampires can't cross running water' bit of vampire lore. And since it was never made explicit in the film (though I recall that there was going to be a scene that indicated as such) I've made the decision that it is just not a thing in this fic. Not very important to know, but there you have it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you want an entire chapter of just David and Michael negotiating the shit out of this whole vampire lifestyle thing? Because if so, you're welcome!
> 
> As always, hope you enjoy!

* * *

Any sense of calm that Michael is able to find on the ride to the hotel - which isn’t much - is lost within moments of stepping inside and finding it empty once more.

He lights a drum, hurling the torch into its depth - making the metal ring - and shouts out for David. Demanding that he stop being a coward and show himself. 

But as every night before, there's no response.

Michael roars out his frustrations, screaming unintelligible curses towards the ceiling. He kicks out at everything that’s not nailed down, sending bottles and trinkets and tapes and trash skittering about the place, the pigeons hoot out in indignation at the sudden upset of their nest. Not that Michael notices, too busy working his aggression out on the contents of the room.

The rage bleeds out of him slow, replaced drop by drop by the heavy weight of hopelessness. 

Panting for breath, he collapses on the ground, feeling more lost and alone that he can ever recall being.

He wonders if maybe, just maybe, David is long gone from Santa Carla and not coming back. In which case, Michael has no idea what the hell he’s going to do that doesn’t involve _someone_ dying.

He doesn’t want it to be him, he knows that much. But he also knows that he’s not ready for it to be anyone else either.

As his stomach twists with hunger that seems to know no end, he knows that one way or another something has to give. Soon. _Now_.

And damn it all, David did this to him. He should _be here_ to help him through it.

Michael presses his back against the base of the fountain, feeling the scratch of the uneven stone through his leather jacket. He leaves one leg stretched out in front of him, and tucks the other up against his chest so he can rest his head on it. He wraps one of his arms around his knee, and the other he buries in his hair, scrubbing at his scalp with his nails.

The subtle sting helps to keep him grounded as he works to steady his breathing in a last ditch effort to calm the raging hunger within him. Trying to remember why going to the boardwalk is a _bad idea_ , rather than the answer to all his prayers.

He has no idea how long he sits there. Maybe its minutes, or maybe its hours. But he’s circling around the idea that this may be all he has left to look forward to for the rest of his life, however long that is, when the voice of a ghost presses against his thoughts. _‘Michael…’_

His head shoots up, looking for the source, exhaling the air within his lungs on an uneven breath when he finds it. “David?”

“Hello, Michael.”

He’s standing at the base of the stairs, looking the same as he did before their fight at Michael’s home.

Like he hadn’t almost died at Michael’s hand. Like nothing has changed.

Only, _everything_ has changed. Michael can see that now.

David surveys the room, mouth tilted up in a half-smirk. “What, it wasn’t enough that you got my boys all killed, you have to come here and destroy our stuff too?”

Michael scrambles upright until he’s standing. “Where have you _been_?”

David picks his wheelchair up, righting it so that it’s no longer on its side, but doesn’t sit. He glances back at Michael, an eyebrow raised. “Here. Mostly. But I think you knew that. Or was all that talking you were doing the last few nights really meant for the birds?”

Michael grits his teeth, feeling the rage that he had worked so hard to cool begin to heat once more. “ _Damn it_ , David! You’ve been here the whole time, and you just let me-”

David turns towards him fully, face contorted with a snarl, and takes a step closer. “Let? **Let?!** In case you’ve forgotten, _Michael_ , you ran me through with a pair of _horns_!” His hand smacks at his chest, and Michael’s gaze darts to follow, remembering the holes he’d put there. “Those did more than just _itch_. So **yes** , I _let_ you ramble on night after night while I _healed_ from a near fatal wound enough that I could _move_ again!”

Michael swallows down his planned response, cowed by his outburst. “It was that bad?”

David breathes out. “Yes, Michael. _It was_. Almost killed me. Knew you had in you.” 

Michael shakes his head. “I don’t-”

“You _do_. Whether or not you want to admit it, it’s there.”

Michael growls. “Because you _put_ it there!” 

David’s smile is untroubled. “No. I didn’t. I coaxed it out of hiding, that’s all.”

Michael turns away, not able to believe that. Not _wanting_  to believe that. He doesn’t voice the thought, but David responds to it anyway.

“Don’t believe me? Then ask yourself why you took to this so easily - so _quickly -_ when Star was still able to fight it a year on.” He moves to the chest Michael had upended in his rage, and sets it upright, picking up the fallen candles from the floor and placing them back on its surface.

“She’s human again. So’s Laddie.”

“Good for them.”

Michael watches as the vampire moves about the space, fixing the damage that he’d caused. His movements slow, precise. Michael wonders whose benefit that’s for: David’s or his?

“I’m not.”

“You don’t say.”

The patronizing attitude reignites Michael’s annoyance, and he stomps towards the vampire. He catches himself before he lashes out, tucking his hands into fists by his sides, forcing himself to remain as calm as he can. “Can you undo it?" 

David straightens. “I can’t.”

Michael doesn’t want to beg, but he knows he has to try or he’ll never forgive himself. “ _Please_?”

“I _can’t_ , Michael. Not without dying.”

Michael’s breath stutters out of him, and he looks away. The question he’s most wanted to know the answer to spilling out of him. “ _Why_? Why did you do this me?”

David’s eyes, when Michael looks back, are clear pools. His tone almost kind. “It was meant as a _gift_ , Michael.”

Anger and frustration, two emotions that have become constant companions since moving to Santa Carla and meeting David, swell and churn inside of him. “A gift? Is that what you call it? Forcing me to be like you? _Killing_ me?”

David snarls, his upper lip pulled back over blunt teeth; a flash of amber coloring his cool-blue eyes. “I offered you immortality! Invited you into my family! I would have-”

“Offered?! You didn’t give me a **choice**!” Michael growls as he steps further into David’s space. Dreams of violence playing on a loop behind his eyes.

David doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step back. Instead, his face softens as he looks at Michael. The timber of his voice when he speaks is equally soft, and low. “Would you have said yes, if I had?”

“I…” Michael knows what his answer _should_ be. A clear, and concise ‘no.’ And yet...he finds that _shoulds_ are of little importance right now. “I don’t know.”

David cocks his brows upward, the tips of his mouth tilting up in a disbelieving smirk. ‘ _Liar’_ echoes in Michael’s head in David’s voice. Michael’s hackles rise more at the insinuation that he is being untruthful, and less at the invasion of his mental space.

“I’m not _lying_ , David. I don’t...I don’t know what I would have said. But you, you could have...you _should_ have tried asking.”

David laughs, a bitter mithless sound. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

David’s tongue darts out, licking a slow strip along his bottom lip, his liquid gaze holding Michael’s. Michael’s heart falters in his chest at that look. “Okay then.” David takes one leisurely step after another towards Michael, closing the distance between them until he is no more than a breath away. “I’m _asking._ ”

“What?” Caught off guard, the word comes out dry and raspy.

“My brother’s are **dead**. My maker is **dead**. All because I wanted **you**.” Amber flickers again in David’s eyes, but his human face remains in place. “I’ve nothing left. _Nothing_.” David glances away, just for a moment. When he turns back, all traces of artifice are wiped clean from his face, leaving something brutal and raw in their place. “So either give me a quick death, or let me have my eternity.” David leans close enough that his nose brushes Michael’s. “ _Choose_ , Michael.”

Michael’s heart pounds in his chest. David can’t be saying what Michael _thinks_ he’s saying. Can he? Michael opens his mouth to ask for clarification, but all that comes out is another choked sounding “ _What?_ ”

David steps back and away, giving Michael much needed breathing room. He opens his arms out, the expression on his face so neutral that it’s unnatural. “Kill me, and be free. Or _join me_ , and live forever.”

Michael gapes at him. “You call that a choice?”

David’s arms drop back to his side. “More than most people get.” His stance remains unthreatening, even if Michael knows it to be a lie. “No one asks to be born, Michael. And very few get to decide when they die. Here I am, giving you your pick of either. Even after all you’ve done. You could be a bit more gracious.”

“I _could_ just walk away.” Though Michael knows, even as he says it, that it’s not really an option. He wouldn’t have been here - night after night, waiting for David - if it was.

And David knows it too.

“You can _try_ , Michael. Leave me here, and I won’t come after you - or your family. I won’t need to. Because one day - probably not that long from now - the hunger is going to do it for me. You’ll snap, and whoever is the unlucky bastard standing closest to you - your mother, the old man, your brother...Star - is going to get their throat torn out.”  

Michael turns away, knowing that he’s right, and hating it.

“But it doesn’t have to happen like that, Michael.” David takes one, slow step closer. Not diminishing the distance like he did before, but enough that Michael can’t be anything other than aware of his approaching proximity. “They can stay safe - alive - in no danger from either you, or me. No one you care about has to be _hurt_ , Michael. But you have to _choose_.”

Michael thinks about the way his family’s blood was calling to him when he awoke this evening. How the effort of stopping himself from tearing into all of them, and drinking his fill, was almost too much to ignore. And he can’t imagine how they’d be safe if he was to turn fully, allowing himself to be lost to that bloodlust. “How - how can you promise they’d be safe?”

“ _Think_ , Michael.” David’s lips curl up in a sneer. “It was Max that was after your family, not me. I only went to your home after you led those _hunters_ here and they **killed** Marko.” Amber finally overtakes David’s eyes, fangs descending, at the mention of the other vampire’s death.

Michael watches, fascinated, as David slides his eyelids closed, taking deep measured breaths until the vampire visage recedes and he looks upon Michael through human eyes once more. “It was only ever _you_ I wanted.” His voice is throaty, burnt at the edges. “If you ask that your family stay safe, then they’ll stay safe.”

“Even from me?”

David rolls his eyes. “Yes, Michael. Even from you. Maybe you haven’t noticed - even with how politely we’re conversing - but contrary to popular opinion, we’re not mindless killing machines. So long as you don’t starve yourself that is.”

Michael rocks back, feeling almost lightheaded by the way everything always seems to come back to that one thing. “I don’t want to kill anyone.” He says, because it's the simple truth. He doesn't want kill anyone. 

Not even David. 

“ _That’s_ not one of your choices, Michael.” The words are clipped, terse. “ _Someone_ has to die. Be it me, or you, or a nameless human chosen at random from the teeming throngs.” David gives a careless shrug. “Sorry, but I can only do so much.”

He doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“Say I did. Join you.” Michael licks his lips, hating that he is considering what he is considering, but also no longer willing pretend that he’s _not_. “How long...how long before I’d have to…?”

Something like triumph sparks in David’s eyes, but it’s too swift for Michael to be sure. “Hard to say. Everyone is different. You...well, as reticscent as you are, you’re also already at the brink of starvation. You won’t last much longer without feeding. Probably for the best you came here when you did, I doubt your family would have lasted the night.”

Michael huffs. “Yeah...so do I. It’s why I left. What about...what about your blood?” He searches David’s face, trying - and failing - to get a read on his reaction. He soldiers on.

_In for a penny…_

“Would I need to kill, If I feed from you? Star said-”

David’s brow scrunches up, good humor lighting his face. “Star told you all about her thieving the bottle to keep from killing?” 

“Yeah.”

David snorts. “Course she did.”

“Would it work?” 

“For a while. But not forever, Michael.”

“How long?”

David makes a ‘hmm’ing’ sound, running his tongue along his upper row of teeth. “A year. Maybe two. Could be longer, though, if I give you a steady stream of my own blood. But eventually, if you don’t feed - truly _feed_ \- your body will fall apart.”

Hope flares in Michael. “Longer?”

“Perhaps. I honestly don’t know. I’ve never known of anyone holding out more than a few years. But even if you manage that, it won’t be a comfortable life. Won’t be satisfying.”

“But it could work?”

“It could.” David’s mouth quirks up in an amused smile. “You do realize that for me to feed _you_ , I’ll need to feed twice as often. You’ll not be saving anyone. Just passing the buck.”

Michael was afraid of that, but the seed of an idea is growing in him now, and he figures: 

_...in for a pound._

“Do you have to kill, when you feed?”

David freezes, blinking rapidly at Michael. “Pardon?”

Michael smiles, a savage sort of joy rising within him. Feeling like he may have an out where none existed before. “When you _feed_ , do you have to _kill_?”

David’s face twists, a knowing smirk spreading across it. “I didn’t kill you, did I?” 

It’s Michael’s turn to falter on his feet. Lost. “You didn’t feed from me, David.” 

The vampire’s smirk turns indecent as he shortens the distance between them again, just one step. “You sure about that?”

Michael sucks in a desperate lungful of air, the dream from earlier rushing to the front of his mind, and he finds that suddenly, he’s _not_ sure. His throat goes dry, wondering just how much of that wasn’t a dream, but a memory. It sets his world spinning.  

But he also knows that he can’t afford to let David distract him right now. “ _Shit_ \- we - uh - we’re gonna come back to that. Later. Because that...” Michael coughs, clearing his throat, while trying to ignore the self-satisfied gleam in David’s eyes. “What you’re saying is that, _no_ , you _don’t_ need to kill to feed.”

The smirk fades from David’s face. “It makes things more difficult, but no.”

“Difficult?”

“Yes, Michael. What we do? Living people _talk_.” David’s eyes narrow. “Hunters get wind, and suddenly your face is in a comic book, and two-bit hackjobs are crawling all over your nest and **_stabbing your family through the heart!_** ”

His tirade climbs in volume at the end until the cavern is shaking with the echoes of it. The pigeons, which had settled from their earlier upset, take off in all directions again. 

Michael waits, patient, for David’s breathing to settle - for his hands to unclench - before he continues. Feeling - for once - like he has the upper hand. 

“Rumors are worse than a trail of bodies for bringing hunters to your doorstep, how?”

David thrums with stifled energy. “Bodies can be disposed of, Michael. Less evidence.” 

“So, what? You think the missing posters plastered all over Santa Carla are subtle?”

David looks somewhat mollified. “...no. Perhaps not.” Michael leans back - eyes wide, grin on his face - and waits. “My boys and I, we _may_ have gotten...complacent. Time does that to you.”

Michael tilts his head, seeing a chance to have his curiosity abated. “How long have you _been_ here, David? How long-”

David chuckles. “You want to have a heart to heart, Michael? Learn all my dirty little secrets?” He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, just for a second, but it swallows up all of Michael’s attention, and sets his pulse racing. “ _Stay with me_. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Michael considers his next words carefully. “ _If_ I were to stay - to join you - would you stop killing?”

David’s jaw works, back and forth, as if he’s trying to make words come, but can’t remember how. “Why should I?”

Michael halves the distance between them, holding the vampire’s gaze as he moves closer. “For me. Because I’d be asking you too.”

“You’d be asking a lot.”

“You _are_ asking a lot, David. Asking me to give up my life, everything I know. _For you_. Is it so hard to believe that I’d ask for something too?” Michael’s aware, even as he’s saying it, that negotiating the terms of his becoming a vampire is completely ridiculous, and yet…

“You’re ignoring something crucial here, Michael. _Until_ you make a kill, you won’t actually be _joining_ me. You’ll just stay teetering on the edge.”

“I know. Think of it as a - uh - a grace period.”

Confusion floods David’s face. “A what?”

“I don’t want want to kill anyone, David.” The vampire opens his mouth, but Michael doesn’t let him get a word in. “I _don’t_. I get what you’re saying, I _do_. And I don’t want to die either. But...I can’t just agree to _kill_ someone. I _can’t_.” Michael knows that what he’s about to say makes him a bad person, but given the reality of what he is now - or will be one day - he finds it difficult to be too bothered by it. “Not yet at least. Maybe one day. But…I’m not ready. Not yet.”

David molls Michael’s words over, tilting his head at him and considering him through narrowed eyes. “This...grace period of yours, you know you’ll only be able to manage it if _I_ _feed_ _you_ , right?”

Michael inhales. Hunger that has been oddly quiet since the conversation began spiking at the idea of drinking from David. “Yeah, I do.”

“And what if - a year from now, or two, or _five_ \- you’re _still_ not ready to feed, and my blood’s not cutting it anymore. What then, hmm?”

“We’ll deal with that then.” 

David’s jaw tenses around a clipped out breath. “We do this, I won’t stop killing until _you join me_ , Michael. You make your first kill, and I’ll…” David looks like he’s swallowing glass as he makes his mouth form the word. “... _stop_. Assuming you even want to still honor this ridiculous agreement by then.”

The way he says it, dismissive and disdainful, tells Michael all he needs to know about how likely David thinks that scenario _is_. Still, he needs to try. And hell, the fact that he’s managed to get this much of an agreement out of the vampire is a miracle. He can press his advantage later, when he’s more amenable.

“Sure you don’t want to just kill me, and put us both out of our misery?”

Michael scoffs. “We both know you would never just _let me_ kill you, David.”

David’s grin is broad, wild. “I would’ve let you _try_.”

Michael barks out a laugh. “How generous of you.” He turns serious once more. “I don’t want to kill you. I _should_ , but...I thought I had once already and I -” He shakes his head, the sinking feeling he’d felt that night as he’d watched over what he thought was David’s corpse too fresh to forget.

Even so, he needs to be smart about this, while he still can be. “My family stays safe. You lay so much as a finger on them - all bets are off.”

“Fair enough.”

It’s not until David shifts forward that Michael realizes just how close the two of them have gotten again. Having migrated inch by inch over the course of their discussion until it’s impossible for the space to shrink any further without them touching.

“Make your choice, Michael.” David’s tone is low, seductive, when he speaks. His tongue rolling over Michael’s name, sending a shiver along his spine.

“Answer my question first.”

David’s eyes shine, his mouth quirking upwards. “Which one? You’ve asked about a dozen.”

“ _Why me_ , David?”

The levity on David’s face evaporates, eyes darkening. “Eternity is...long, Michael. Too long to spend alone. I’d have you with me. _Beside_ me. If I could. If you want it.”

Michael wonders if David realizes how much like a _proposal_ that sounds. He supposes he must be. They are, after all, discussing the terms of spending their freaking _immortal lives_ together. It's almost too much for Michael to process. Makes his heart race to consider all the implications. And though he knows he should maybe leave well enough alone, _he can’t_. “You weren’t alone when you met me.”

David nods, face a careful mask. “I wasn’t. But I still wanted you.” Michael releases a slow breath at the statement, drawing David’s gaze to his mouth. Heat sings through his veins at the promise waiting in that look. “There wasn’t some plan beyond that. Not on my part at least.”

“And if we can’t stand the sight of each other in a year, or two, or _five_?” Michael asks, mocking, but also genuine in wanting to know: ‘ _What then?’_

David grins, his tongue darting up to trace where his fangs lay in wait. “Guess we’ll deal with that then. Now, stop delaying and _choose_ , Michael.”

Michael's heart thumps in his chest knowing this is the point of no return, no matter what he says about 'grace period's.' Even so, he's known what his answer was going to be since David first walked in the cavern and he'd felt nothing but relief. 

Since before that, if he's ready to be truly honest with himself. 

He angles his head towards David's, his cheek brushing against the other man’s. “I already have, _David_.”

A hand slides into the hair at the back of Michael’s neck, tugging on the strands. Michael gasps, heat spiking through him at the touch. David whispers a breathless “ _Good_ ” into his ear.

A moment later there’s a mouth molding against his.

The kiss is deep, needy. The feel - the  _taste_ \- a strange mix of the new and the familiar. It sparks to life the memory of the only other time they've done this.

And Michael knows with certainty that what he dreamt wasn't just a dream. 

But this -  _th_ _is_  - is the first time that Michael's  _aware_. 

Michael groans, greedy for more. He leans further into it, stroking his tongue against David's. His arms slide up and around, nails digging into the longer strands of hair at the base of David’s scalp, causing a throaty purr in response.

Michael has no idea when teeth come into play or when his face is pressed to David's neck, but when blood coats his tongue, it feels like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to state here that I had PLANNED to leave this fic firmly as "M" rated, but these characters attacked me, and I ended up writing an explicit scene for the two of them, so the rating will be kicked up a notch starting next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, umm, yeah...I had PLANNED on keeping this fic firmly on the 'M' side of the rating line, but as mentioned last chapter, David and Michael decided I was going to write an explicit sex scene for them, and I decided it was better to give in to their demands. Rating has been upped accordingly, folks. 
> 
> While there IS some plot/character interaction buried within the smut, once they make it the bed, it's all downhill :-D. if you'd prefer not to read something explicit, please skip down to the first page break. (See, it's not even a WHOLE chapter of smut!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

They don’t make it as far as the bed. Instead, they tumble - Michael latched onto David’s throat - into the nearest flat surface. Which happens to be an ancient couch. David hits it first, falling back and pulling Michael along into his lap.

David’s fingers coast through Michael’s hair, encouraging. He lets him drink his fill - more so than is probably wise - but he’s as lost to his need for the boy, as Michael is to his need for the blood.

It’s only when David begins to feel the loss of blood like a physical ache, that he pries Michael away from his neck, much to Michael’s displeasure. “Easy now.” Michael continues to lap at his skin, dragging his tongue up and along David’s throat, and jaw - frustrated grumbles eeking out of him when David guides him away from the source of his food.

The annoyed sounds are replaced by a long, drawn-out groan of pleasure when David presses their mouths together again. Licking at the inside of Michael’s mouth to get some of his own blood back. The hand not buried in Michael’s hair squeezes tight at Michael’s hip, holding him in place as David grinds up against him. Satisfaction flooding him at the press of hardness in Michael’s jeans against his own.

Not breaking their kiss, Michael paws at David, hands digging into his hair, through his shirts, his body rocking against David’s, searching for a rhythm that he can’t seem to figure out. David relaxes into it, delighted at Michael’s response. Thrilled by the scent of arousal pouring off of him in waves.  

David suppresses the urge - the _need_ \- to press for more. To bite, to claim, to _fuck_. To drag Michael beneath him and convince him that there is no where else he’ll ever want to be.

His lack of patience has already cost him so much. _Too much_. He can’t afford to get ahead of himself again.  

Can’t afford to scare Michael off only minutes after reaching a tentative - albeit entirely _ridiculous_ ( _ **S** **top killing?**  Really?_) - truce.

Still, he’s a vampire, not a _saint_ , and there’s only so damn much he can resist.

And a little bite never hurt anyone. (Much.)

He deepens the kiss, rocking against Michael. Using the hand at Michael’s hip to press them down together. Again and again and _again_. On an inhale, he slides his mouth along Michael’s jaw, to his throat. On the exhale, he presses up with his hips, and down with his fangs.

Michael’s shout of surprised pleasure when his skin is pierced echoes throughout the room, highlighted by the way that his body tenses and shudders in David’s arms.

David sips; taking only tiny draws of blood - of life - as the half-vampire in his lap comes down from his unexpected orgasm. As Michael’s head falls forward against David’s neck, all energy sapped out of him, David withdraws his teeth, lapping the wound shut with gentle pressure.

“Shit.” 

“Feeling better?”

“ _Shit._ Yeah…” Laughter shakes through Michael, the feel of it making David purr with contentment beneath him. “That was... _fuck me_.”  

“Mmm, later. Give you time to recover first.”

Another laugh, this one light and exhausted, leaves Michael in warm huffs of air against the bite wound on David’s neck. His tongue darts out, licking a strip over it. An involuntary shiver runs through David at the sensation against the still sensitive skin. He jerks upward at the feeling, the hand still buried in Michael’s hair clenching tight. A growl escapes him and he nips at Michael’s jaw. “Careful, or I won’t bother waiting.”

There’s a happy rumble in Michael’s chest, but he presses upwards, mumbling out a loopy “Sorry.” He looks down at David, tongue tracing over his own lips, chasing the droplets of blood speckling it, before he slips off his lap and stumbles away.

He finds his feet beneath him, but still wobbles like he’s got sea legs. “It always gonna feel like that?”

David stretches his arms over his head, enjoying the thoroughly debauched vision of Michael in front of him. “Hmmm, one can only hope.”

Michael gives him a dopey smile that David can admit - if only to himself - is charming in its innocence. The smile fades into a grimace. He glances down, picking at his jeans. “Ugh. Need to get out of these. Don’t suppose you’ve got running water around here?” 

And _that_ is too good of an opening for David to pass up. He licks his lips. Slow, deliberate. Gratified by the way that Michael’s pupils dilate as he follows the motion. He pushes his body upright, stalking towards him until he’s within touching distance again. David reaches out, popping the button on Michael’s jeans open, drinking in the way that Michael’s breath sharpens and stutters. “Who needs water?”

David kisses Michael again, sliding a hand along the loosened waist of his jeans and walking him backwards towards the bed. Feeling triumphant when he’s offered no resistance, just eager participation as Michael kisses back, tangling his tongue with David’s and working his hands under David’s coat, forcing it off so that it drops to the floor. Those same hands immediately set to work tugging at the bottom of David’s shirt, growling when it doesn’t cooperate. 

David helps him out, lifting the offending garment over his head. 

It’s no time at all before David’s down to just his jeans, and he has Michael peeled out of all but his boxers and spread out like an offering on the bed.

It takes a surprising amount of effort for David to pull away from Michael’s mouth - finding the taste and feel of him as intoxicating as the rest - but he manages. Pulling back so that he can look down upon the not-quite-mortal that cost him everything, and whom David is all to aware he’s developing a worrying level of attachment to.

Michael looks back at him through heavy lidded blue eyes blown black with arousal, mouth swollen and red. The mark of David’s recent bite on his neck pink, but healing. 

It’s an absolutely delicious sight, and one David intends to savor. 

Michael breaks first, one of his hands shooting out to grab David by the back of the neck and pulling him back down to his mouth with a fang-tipped snarl.

Caught in a series of biting open-mouthed kisses that draws trickles of blood from them both, the two roll over on the bed, Michael seeking control that David has no intention of giving up.

There’s a petulant frown on Michael’s face when David ends up back on top that makes David laugh. It’s honestly the most fun he’s had bedding someone in ages, and they’ve barely gotten started.

David begins soothing Michael’s wounded ego by trailing nipping kisses down his torso, mapping the way with teeth and lips and tongue. Lapping at the warm, salty beads of sweat pooling at his collarbone, and further south. Mouth watering at the taste, at the texture.

At the way that Michael’s muscles tremble and bunch beneath the thin layer of flesh when David licks along them.

He wants to devour him. To mark him and turn him into a writhing mess.

Wants to wrap his lips around him and break him apart. Wants to make sure he knows who he belongs to. Wants to make sure he knows _where_ he belongs.

Wants _him_.

It’s taking every last drop of his willpower to not rush all of it. To take his time, and make certain that Michael is as lost to it all as David already is.

_Patience._

Michael’s breath hitches in his throat when David reaches the waistband of his boxers where his renewed erection is twitching beneath the material, brushing against David’s chest. Another moment, and David would have finally gotten the taste he’s been craving, but Michael’s hand flexes against David’s shoulder in a rhythmic push-pull, like he can’t quite decide what he wants.

David halts his progress, leering up at him. “Yes, Michael?” David drawls the syllables of Michael’s name out long and lewd; pleased with the way that he shivers in response.

“Have we -” Michael swallows down a heaving breath. “Did, did we - before? That night’s, ah, bit of a blur.” 

David chuckles, moving to rest his chin against Michael’s sternum, using one hand to stroke at the tender flesh along his ribs, while trailing the nails of the other along his thigh. “Don’t worry, Michael. Your virtue - such as it is - is still intact.”

Michael gives a half-nod shake of his head, his arms dipping beneath David’s to pull the other man back up his body and joining their mouths once more. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, but the words are loud and clear in David’s head.

_‘Good. Wanna remember.’_

David’s control snaps at the errant thought. He presses the full-length of his body down against Michael, growling into his mouth; turning the kiss bruising. 

 _Fuck waiting._  

Really, patience has never been one of David’s virtues.

And, as luck would have it, it seems it’s not one of Michael’s either. Or at least, that’s the impression David gets when Michael starts pushing at David’s jeans, uncontrolled nails scraping at the skin at his hips and ass as he tries to push the denim down and out of his way.

Not that David’s complaining. _At all_.

David helps him out, yanking them down and kicking them away, freeing his erection from their confines, while Michael’s still wearing those damnable boxers.

David takes care of those next, pulling them down as far as he can without breaking the connection at their mouths, then using his foot to push them off the rest of the way.

David groans at the first skin-on-skin brush of Michael’s cock against his own, wasting no time in reaching down to wrap his hand around the hard shaft, still sticky-slick with Michael’s earlier release. Michael’s response is immediate, a gasping moan into David’s mouth, and an upward jerk of his hips.

David sets a rapid pace, determined to make Michael frenzied with need. When he has Michael to the point that he’s clawing at David’s ass and back, trying to grind up into his hand, his mouth breaking away to bite down with blunt teeth into his shoulder, David’s hand ventures further south.

At first, he earns an unhappy grunt from Michael at the sudden lack of stimulation to his cock. David seeks his mouth out again with his own, rocking their erections against one another as his fingers begin tracing the ring of tight muscle at Michael’s hole once, twice - _more_. Repeating the motion until Michael’s tense limbs slacken, and his kiss turns from frustrated to relaxed on a pleased sigh.

It’s only then that David pushes forward, passing through the entrance first with a single digit, but quickly adding another; thrusting motions first, then curling them up and pulling them back.

There’s not enough lubrication, he knows. Only the remnants of Michael’s own drying cum to ease the way, and it shows in every microexpression that Michael makes. Those kissable fucking lips of his parting on a nervous inhale, wide open eyes locked on David’s.

David can’t look away.

Despite the discomfort David knows the intrusion must cause him, Michael angles his hips. Seeking out more of the contact, pushing David deeper, until David is able to stroke at the waiting bundle of nerves inside. Michael gasps, whole body jerking like it’s not certain whether to focus on the pain or the pleasure.

David groans at the action, pressing his mouth back to Michael’s for a quick, thorough kiss, and then dropping lower. Michael’s back bows when David pauses to lick a strip up along his cock, swirling his tongue at the head, lapping up the fluid that’s leaking slow from the tip, but David doesn’t linger. His goal within sight.

He pushes at Michael’s hips, lifting him enough to allow David access. David licks at the ring of muscle, between and around his thrusting fingers, earning a chest shaking moan in response. With a prick of his fangs, he slices his own tongue, allowing blood and saliva to slip and slide and coat the entrance as he laps at it, thrusting in counterpoint to his fingers.

He keeps at it, lapping with his bleeding tongue, then pressing and stroking with his fingers, until Michael’s writhing on the bed, one hand holding tight to David’s head, nails scraping the scalp until it bleeds, the other grasping at his own erection.

Unable to wait a second longer to feel Michael beneath him, _around him_ , David climbs back up his new lover’s body. He drags his bloody tongue along the palm of his hand, then uses it to grasp at his own far-too neglected cock, coating it in the fluid before lining it up with Michael’s entrance.

He meets Michael’s eyes, then presses their lips together. Michael groans, sucking at David’s still bleeding tongue with relish, eyes falling closed, hands clenching at David’s shoulder, and ass. David deepens the kiss, pressing forward with his hips at the same time. Blood continuing to trickle from him to Michael where their mouths are joined. He pulls back and presses forward again and again with his hips, easing his way past the resisting muscles until he sinks - finally, _fully_ \- into that tight heat.

Any chance David has of keeping control evaporates as stray thoughts of pleasure and surprise and want and _need_ and **_more_ ** slip from Michael to David, spurring David on further, faster, _harder_. Until he is pounding deep into Michael’s body beneath him. Growling, David nips his way down Michael’s neck, inhaling the intoxicating mix of blood and sex and _him_.

When he sinks his fangs into Michael’s neck this time, it’s not just Michael that comes.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The sun is just beginning to set when Michael slides back into consciousness. 

He’s naked, curled beneath the covers of the same bed where at one time he and Star… but now it is an equally naked David resting beside him. Close, but not quite touching, save the fingers of one hand just casually brushing against Michael’s side.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, he feels _good_.

Actually, he’s feeling fucking _great_.

The hunger that he’s been dealing with in rolling waves and flooding pools has slowed down to a mere trickle, quiet but still present - though at a much more manageable level. Enough that he thinks he could handle a trip to the boardwalk, let alone an evening with his family.

He’s well rested, in a comfortable bed, with no nightmares having disturbed the peace.

And beyond that, well, no one in history could argue against the overall relaxing effects that orgasms have on a person’s body.

Human, half-vampire, or otherwise apparently.

Those are all physical, though.

His mental state? Well, that’s another beast entirely. One he doesn’t doubt is going to take him several days (or months - years?) to parse out.

Because what he’s agreed to? What he’s considering? It’s cause for a freak-out. Or at least, it _should_ be.

Only he’s not. Freaking out, that is. There’s a stunted bit of worry, but it’s less for him than it is for his brother, and his Mom. Everything else is just...window dressing. 

Maybe the lack of concern is just a reflection of the hormonal blitz he’s recovering from after last night.

Post-sex high, maybe? 

Which - logically - he knows is another thing he _could_ add to the list of things he ought to be freaking out over, but hell - given everything else? It just doesn’t rank.

Not when the memory of how _bad_ he wanted it is so clear in his mind. How desperate. Not when every part of him recalls just how damn _good_ it felt. How _right_. He’s not gonna ruin it by trying to pretend like it was anything else aside from exactly what he needed.

Maybe later, when he’s in the come-down phase of everything. But he’s not about to force it. 

Regardless of what he could be or should be or _is_ feeling at the moment, he figures he’s got time now. No longer working against the fast ticking clock of his constant hunger. He’ll work it out.

First things first though, he needs to let his family know he’s not dead. 

Michael slips from the bed, careful to avoid disturbing the other occupant, and gathers his clothes. He snorts when he lifts his boxers, the material stiff and gross. Fit to burn, not to wear.

He still can’t believe he came in his pants when David bit him. It’d be damn embarrassing if it hadn’t felt so good. 

And if it hadn’t seemed like that had been _exactly_ David’s goal to begin with.

Bastard.

Dropping the dirty underwear back to the ground, he grabs his duffle, digging through it for a fresh set of everything. He needs a shower. Bad. Remnants of last night dried across his skin like a roadmap of his sins. But that'll have to wait until he's home. For now, clean clothes will have to do. He can feel the last rays of the sun dying, and wants to be dressed before David wakes up. 

Because if not, he's certain David will have no trouble convincing him to stay.

Michael’s sitting on a rickety chair draped in fabric he guesses is one of Star’s skirts, a threadbare stuffed animal laying haphazard on the seat next to him, tying his shoelaces when the vampire opens his eyes.

He seems to go from dead to fully alert in a single beat of Michael’s heart. Turning sharp eyes in his direction as he sits up, the sheet pooling at his waist. Exposing the porcelain skin of his chest and abdomen Michael knows the exact feel and taste of now. 

He tries not to look, but it’s a losing battle.

“You’re still here.”

Michael swings his gaze up, meeting David’s. “You sound surprised.”

David shrugs, leaning over the side of the bed to snag something out of the pile of clothes lumped next to it. The action moves the sheet, unveiling his pale back, the curve of his ass. His outer thigh.

Michael doesn’t even try to look away.

When the vampire sits back up, he has his lighter and a cigarette in hand. With a flick of the former he sets the latter to flame, and takes a drag. “Figured you’d be in the middle of an existential crisis by now and have run off.” He smirks at Michael through a mouthful of smoke as he exhales. 

Michael runs a hand through his hair, nodding. “Thought about it. But you’d just follow me. Tired of the drama, so…” He shrugs. “Stuck around. To let you know I’m heading home.”

David lifts an eyebrow. “Home? You _are_ home, Michael.”

Michael shakes his head, a half-smile on his face. “I’m really not, David. Not yet, at least. Grace period, remember?”

David’s expression darkens. “That mean you’re planning to run home to Mommy every night?”

“Not every night. But yeah, I’m gonna still be spending time there. I’m not abandoning my family.”

David takes another drag from the cigarette, flicking the ash onto the floor by the bed. “And one of those nights needs to be tonight?”

Michael glances off towards the entrance of the hotel. “I didn’t see them before I left...they’ll be worried.”

“You telling me they can’t figure out where you went? You've been visiting the pigeons here every night for the last _week_.”

Michael arches his brows. “Sure they can. But I was always back by dawn before. You want Sam and his buddies to come storming in here again, looking for me?”

David growls, amber flaring in his gaze. “Your brother gets a pass. _For you_. But his friends step foot in here again, they’re kibble.”

Michael holds a hand up, fingers splayed wide. “No argument here.” 

Pleasure coats David’s face as he gives Michael a toothy grin. “ _Really_?”

“Yeah.” Michael doesn't  _think_ he wants to see the Frog brothers dead, but he's also not as opposed to it as he knows he  _should_ be. And if they were to show up here - at the hotel - with stakes and holy water, planning to take out David and him? 

Well...Michael thinks his grace period would be a damn short one. 

David licks his lips, leaning forward. The look on his face magnetic, but Michael manages to stay where he is. When David speaks, his voice has dropped to a lower, enticing register. “Say the word, Michael. And we can have ourselves a snack.”

Michael forces out a laugh, trying to lighten the tension filling the space between them. He’s not even all that hungry at the moment, but the thought...it makes him salivate. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“ _Liar_.”

Michael rolls his eyes, and stands. He scoops his coat up off the floor and slides it on, patting down the pockets for his keys, but not finding them. “I’ll be back. Day or two.”

David grunts, but doesn’t say anything else. When Michael glances his way again, he's standing on the far side of the bed, cigarette hanging from his lips as he tugs his jeans back up around his hips, chest still bare.

It’s a hell of a sight, and one that has Michael seriously questioning the need to leave at the moment. He shakes it off, telling his libidio to get a hold of itself.

Michael turns away, heading into the main space of the room, feeling David’s eyes on him. He stops by his duffle again, shuffling through it for his keys, but comes up empty.

He straightens, scoping out the room for them, figuring they must have spun out somewhere last night when he was tearing through the place like a wrecking ball. 

“Looking for these?” 

Michael turns on his heel to find a still half-undressed David - jeans unbuttoned - just a short step away, Michael’s bike keys dangling from his fingers.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” Michael reaches out, but David’s hand closes around them in a fist, a smirk overtaking his face. Michael rolls his eyes. “Come on, David. Give me the keys.”

“Hmm, I’m thinking... _no_.”

“ _David.”_ Michael growls, anger amping up.

“See, here’s what I'm thinking. I’m thinking, you don’t need to run off just yet. Hell, I’m thinking you don’t even _want_ to run off yet.” David leans forward, sniffing up the column of Michael’s throat, a rumble in his chest. “I’m thinking you wanna stay.” His tongue darts out to flick at the pierced lobe of Michael’s ear. “So, _stay_.”

Michael inhales a shaky breath. “My family-” 

“Will still be there tomorrow.”

Michael snorts. “So will you.”

David pulls back, just enough that Michael can see the wide grin on his face. “Yeah, but I’m also here _right now_. Instant gratification, Michael.”

Want thrums through Michael at the statement. But he pushes it away. “I really need to go…” 

David holds Michael’s gaze for several beats, then shrugs. “Fine. Suit yourself.” He opens his hand and drops the keys. The action unexpected enough that Michael almost misses catching them as they fall. “After last night I should feed anyway. Go. Have fun with Mommy and Baby Bro. I’ll hunt.”

Michael knows he’s being manipulated. Knows it plain as day. The word ‘kill’ never passes David’s lips - leaving it out like his feeding is some benign act - but they both know that’s what he means. They are one and the same for the vampire, and he’d been clear the night before about what Michael has to do to get him to _stop_.

And the jury is still out on whether or not he even would _then_. The burden on Michael to still want him to, even after...

He doubts David even needs to feed again so soon. It’s just a game to him. A way of getting what he wants. But it’s also not a bluff. And Michael knows that if he leaves, so will David. And then someone _will_ die. But if he stays…

And hell, it’s not like David’s _wrong_. Michael _doesn’t_ want to leave yet. Even though he _should_.

The ‘ _shoulds_ ’ are adding up high enough that Michael’s going to suffocate beneath them soon.

Doesn’t change anything though.

Michael’s free hand darts out to catch David by the wrist, reeling him back. David lifts his brows as Michael steps into his personal space. “You can’t pull this shit every time I say I have to go somewhere.”

David smirks, sliding a hand behind Michael and slipping it into one of the belt loops on his jeans, holding him in place. “Oh, I know.” The vampire leans down, nipping at Michael’s neck. Despite himself, Michael shivers, enjoying the sensation. “Some nights I’m _actually_ going to need to feed. Can’t have you stepping in to play hero _all_ the time.” 

David’s hand slips lower - cupping the curve of Michael's ass - in time with his mouth sucking harder at Michael's pulse point, dragging a groan up and out of him. “You’re a bastard.” 

David laughs against his throat. “Never claimed otherwise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So on a fun note, my outline for this chapter actually DID have Michael leaving at the end. Only...when I got to that part, both David and Michael said nope. *shrugs* Who am I to argue?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael finally leaves the hotel, and the Emerson family have a discussion.
> 
> As always, thanks to all my readers, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

It’s a night and a day later when Michael finally makes the drive back to his family’s house.

He wants to feel bad about the delay. But it’s impossible to when he feels warm and alive and well-fed; skin still tingling from the imprint of David’s hands and mouth on him.

He can’t even claim that there was a compelling reason for staying out another night like ‘it saved someone’s life.’ Because he’s not an idiot. And even though no one died last night thanks to Michael’s sudden inability to say no to David, he _knows_ that someone is going to die tonight, while he’s here, and David’s...out.

Like David said, he’s just passing the buck.

But maybe that’s enough for now. Incremental though it may be, that’s still someone that didn’t _die_.

That has to count for something.

And if there is a tiny voice that sounds like Sam nagging at the back of Michael’s head telling him that if he would just grow a pair and _kill David_ , then _no one else will die_ , well, Michael can be forgiven for not hearing it.

Right?

So yeah. It seems like Michael’s mental space is still a work in progress. An extra night spent with David hasn’t helped with that at all.

Go figure. 

Tabling those mental gymnastics for later, he pulls up on his bike at the house, spotting Sam and their Mom sitting on the porch.

His mother scrambles to her feet when she sees him, tripping down the steps to come towards him. “Michael!”

He catches her in a hug when she throws her arms around him, feeling a swell of gratitude towards David when her scent doesn’t make his hunger return. He holds her tight, smiling. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, my boy! I was so worried, when Star said - and I, oh, Michael!” She pulls back, framing his face in her small hands, looking him over like she’s expecting to find cuts and bruises marring his skin. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay, Mom.” For a change - he doesn’t feel like he’s lying when he says it. “I promise.” He grasps her arms at the wrists, and tugs them down, gently. Giving her as reassuring a smile as he can; receiving a small fluttering one from her in return.

“Killed anyone, Mike?”

“Sam!” His mother gasps, glaring at her younger son.

Michael’s eyes dart up to his brother; anger sits on his face like a mask, covering the fear Michael can scent pouring off him.  

He’s honestly kind of proud of Sam for holding it together as well as he is, considering.

Michael shakes his head, keeping eye contact, but slouching his shoulders a bit in an effort to seem less threatening. “No, Sam. I haven’t.” His somewhat guilty conscience pulls at him, trying to remind him of what David is surely doing at the moment, but he brushes it off. 

That’s David’s doing, not his.

“Yeah-huh. Sounds like something a no-good vampire would say.” 

“Samuel Emerson! How can-”

Michael squeezes his Mom’s hand. “It’s okay, Mom. Really. Sam - just - get a mirror or something, okay? You’ll see I’m not - I haven’t killed anyone.” _Yet._ “I promise.”

Sam frowns, looking over his shoulder at the house and then back at Michael and their Mom. “I’m not leaving you out here alone with her.”

Their Mom opens her mouth - presumably to chastise Sam again - But Michael bumps his shoulder against hers. “That’s fair.” Michael glances around, before gesturing to the parked vehicles. “Side-view?”

Sam tilts his head, considering, then nods agreement, and the three of them head over to their mother’s car, leaning into look. Michael’s translucent reflection an interesting juxtaposition to Sam's and their Mom’s solid ones.

The disconcerting feeling Michael felt the first few times he’d seen it is gone now, replaced by a cool kind of apathy. It is what it is, and nothing short of killing David’s going to fix it. And well, if Michael hadn’t been certain that wasn’t an option before, he is now.

In direct opposition to the last time they looked in a mirror together, the fear in Sam seeps out in one long breath at sight, the side of his mouth lifting up in a smile. Tension Michael hadn’t even realized he was carrying bleeds away when his brother leans against his side, addressing him through the mirror. “Glad to still see ya, Mike.”

Smiling back, Michael swings an arm around Sam’s shoulders turning them towards their Mom.

Who’s looking at Michael like she’s never seen him before, her mouth working around words that don’t leave it, a shine of wetness coating her eyes.

 _Shit_.

“Mom-” Michael wants to reach for her, but he feels like he’s stuck in concrete. Lucky for them all, Sam is there and damn quick on the uptake these days. His brother crosses the space to their Mom, circling his hands around hers. 

“Mom? Ma? It’s okay. Really. If Mike had...we wouldn’t be able to see him at all. I know it’s weird, but this is what he’s _supposed_ to look like, I promise.” His voice is gentle, but firm.   

Her gaze breaks from Michael to glance at Sam, then back at Michael. “Okay.” Her voice shakes, and Michael hates himself a little for not having thought ahead before using the mirror in front of her. “Okay, honey.”

She clears her throat, blinking the moisture from her eyes. “Have you had dinner yet, Michael? There’s some leftovers in the fridge-”

The recent memory of having his teeth buried in David’s neck - the other man’s body tangled with his own as luscious liquid life poured into his mouth, and down his throat, heating him from within as David rocked against him - flashes bright in Michael’s mind. He coughs, trying to dispel the image before something as embarrassing as a blush stains his cheeks. “I’m good, Mom. But thanks." 

She frowns, but lets it go.

“Did you find him, Mike?” Sam - still holding one of their Mom’s hands - looks towards Michael with hopeful but cautious eyes.

Michael considers how to explain. He could lie, of course. Tell him that he’s been looking, but hasn’t had any luck. It’s an option that’s certain to lead to less awkward questions than the truth. But whatever good keeping David’s continued existence a secret could do is outweighed by the bad.

No matter what David is (or may be becoming) to Michael, he’s still a predator, and a dangerous one at that. If things were to go south…

His family needs to know. So they can stay alert. Safe.

 _Alive_.

The truth it is then. At least, a censored version of it.

“Yeah.”

Michael can see Sam gearing up to ask about a hundred more questions, but cuts him off. “Can we go inside before you start the inquisition, please? Don't want to have this discussion in the front yard.” 

His mother relaxes a little at the request, smiling a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course, Michael-”

“Don’t invite him in, Mom!”

“Sam! I swear. What are you talking about? He _lives_ here.”

“I know, Mom. But you can’t - you can’t _invite_ him. Okay? It’s important.” Sam widens his eyes, doing his best impression of a puppy-dog face. And succeeding. After a moment, he turns the stare towards Michael. “Right, Mike?”

Michael blinks. Caught off guard by the question and feeling a little like he’s under a microscope with the way they’re both watching him. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Sam’s right, Mom. Don’t invite anyone in. Ever. Not even - not even me.” It feels a little like shooting himself in the foot saying it, but he knows it’s the right thing to do.

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t know how it works, Mom. Just trust me, okay. Physically, there’s no keeping anyone who wants in _out_ \- I don’t think - but with an invite...it’ll make protecting yourselves harder.”

“Oh-okay. If you say so.” She doesn’t look convinced, but Michael doesn’t much care if she believes him or not, so long as she listens. He exchanges a nod with his brother, who looks grateful - and maybe a bit annoyed - and the three make their way inside. Nanook glances up at them from his place beside the still busted (but cleaner) fireplace, but doesn’t bother with Michael, laying his head back down to continue his nap.

It’s odd, how much better it makes Michael feel that the dog isn’t freaking out at seeing him, given what Michael’s been up to the last couple of nights. Half-human still or not, there’s no denying that at this point there _must be_ more of David’s stolen blood moving through his veins than his own.

And well, _damn_ , when put  _that way_ , he thinks he really _should_ be a whole lot more bothered by it all then he _is_.

Which is to say - he’s not bothered by it at all.

_Huh._

Yet another thing for him to have to deal with later.

Somehow, they all end up at the kitchen table, their mother puttering around making tea - which Michael accepts and Sam declines (in favor of orange juice).

Sam of course, is the first to break the awkward silence that’s fallen on them. “You found David, but you’re still half. So he’s still alive.”

Michael inclines his head. “Yeah. He is.”

Sam fidgets at the table, picking up his glass and putting it down again without taking a sip. “But you did try to kill him. Right, Mike? Did he just get the better of you, or did he run, or-”

Michael shifts in his seat, regretting ever leaving the hotel at the moment. Because _shit_ , there is no way he can explain what the _hell_ he’s doing - or why - without sounding like he’s booked a ticket for the homicidal immortality train.

Because, well, he sorta _has_.

He takes a long sip of his tea. Grimacing at the pungent flavor. “We...talked.”

“You talked?”

“Yeah.”

“About _what_?! Which blood type tastes better?”

“Sam!”

“Sorry, Mom.”

One of Michael’s shoulders lifts in a half-hearted shrug. “What happened.” He scratches at the back of his neck, looking between his brother and mother who are just...waiting for him to keep talking.

He hates it. But he agreed to this - like an idiot - so he’s got no one to blame but himself. “And umm, options. For me.”

His mother perks up in her seat, eyes opening wider, and a happy hopeful scent wafting from her. (He adds picking up emotional cues from freaking _body odor_ to the list of weird things he does now that he ought to have an issue with, but doesn't.) Knowing he’s just going to squash that hope makes him feel guilty for saying anything. “Oh? What are those, Michael?”

“Yeah, Mike. What options?”

And here - at the wary and more than a little judgmental look his brother gives him - here Michael decides to tell a small white lie. Hoping like hell that his brother doesn’t call him out on it. Not right away at least.  

Not in front of their Mom. 

“I can’t - Star and Laddie, they didn’t…” Michael sucks in a breath of air, buying time to better sell the lie. “I drank too much, too quick. A lot more than either of them did. I can’t...there’s no curing me.” He stares into his cup of tea as he says it, afraid of what he’ll see if he looks at either of them. 

“Oh, _Michael,_ no...”

At the broken declaration, Michael chances glancing up, noting first the crestfallen appearance of his mother, and then the puzzled one of his brother. It’s almost enough to make him wish he hadn’t lied - only the response then would have been worse.

Ten times worse.

“But - I’m not, I don’t need to, uh, _finish_ , for a while yet. A good long while, if I’m careful.” Another lie, but at least this one has an air of truth to it.  

Sam’s frown deepens. There’s a lost look in his eyes that makes Michael feel about two-inches tall. “How, Mike? What are you going to have to do?”

Michael sips at his oversteeped tea again. “Same way that Laddie and Star managed.” Michael flexes his fingers around the ceramic mug, stalling. “David...he’s agreed to, um, _help_. With that.” 

“Why the hell would he do that, Mike?” 

“Language, Sam!”

“Oh, come on, Mom!” Sam’s chair makes a screeching sound when he pushes back hard and quick from the table, but doesn’t rise. “Michael’s just said that he’s gonna be stuck as a bloodsucker. For good! I think a little cursing is called for.” 

His mother frowns, but doesn’t argue the point. 

“So what gives, Mike? Why would David just _agree_ to help you out, huh? And don’t tell me it’s cause he’s a nice guy, because he tried to _kill_ you!”

Michael shakes his head. “He didn’t. Not really. Right up until I...stabbed him. He was just trying to get me to stop fighting.”

“He came after us, Mike! Him and his gang!” Sam jumps out of his seat, pacing to the counter, and back, arms gesturing wildly.

The fast-paced actions make Michael’s hackles rise. The new instincts he’s still coming to understand put on alert by what they perceive as a growing threat, even if he knows better. He drops one hand from his mug to lay in his lap, where he can dig his nails into the flesh of his thigh in an effort to stay grounded. 

“Only after we went after them first, Sam. Remember? Your friends killed one of them. If they hadn’t…” Michael trails off, watching as his brother’s face morphs from angry and disbelieving to confused and uncertain, before settling on something close to dismayed. 

But that passes quickly, his brother leaning on both hands on the table, and staring him down through narrowed eyes. “Still doesn't explain why he’d want to help you now. I’d think he’d want _revenge_.”

Michael wants to look away, because looking at his brother right now is only serving to piss him off, and he doesn’t want that. But those same damn instincts tell him that looking away is yielding the high ground, and try as he might, he _can’t_ make himself do that.  

He clenches his jaw, rocking it back and forth. “Does the why really matter? So long as he’s agreed?”

Sam says “yeah, it does” at the exact same time their Mom says, “no, honey, it doesn’t.” Sam gapes at her but she shuts him down with a look. She reaches a hand out to touch Michael’s on the mug. It’s enough for him to be able to break his brother’s stare without feeling like he’s giving something up. “The important thing is that you’re okay. I just want you to be _okay_ , Michael.”

Grateful, Michael let’s go of the cup and turns his hand over to hold his mother’s. “I am, Mom. Or at least, I’m getting there. Just need some time to figure it all out.” It’s amazing how much calmer he feels meeting his Mom’s kind gaze, as opposed to the angry one of his brother.

He may be an adult on the fast track to becoming something out of a nightmare, but a part of him will always be the scared little boy holding onto his mother like a shield against the monsters.

“How’s he gonna help you, Mike? Huh?”

Michael turns his gaze slowly back to his brother. The younger teen is breathing heavy while still leaning over the table. Michael’s upper lip pulls back from his teeth a little, against his will. He forces it back, exhaling a long breath as he let’s go of his Mom’s hand. “I need you to _sit_ , Sam.”

“Wha-” His brother blinks at him. Repeatedly. Eyes going wide at whatever he sees on Michael’s face. He slides back into his chair without another word.

Michael voices a rough “thanks” to his brother, receiving a shaky nod in response.

Michael waits for everyone’s racing hearts to settle back to something approaching normal, before he goes and ruins it again. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I _don’t_. But I can’t...I need…” Michael drops his head, scrubbing his hands through his hair, before looking back up again. “If I don’t feed… I _will._ Hurt someone. David can help make sure I don’t.”

“Uh, newsflash, Bro, but David’s a _vampire_. Hurting people is what they _do_.”

Michael huffs out an abbreviated laugh. “I know, Sam. I do. Just...can you trust me on this?”

“I wanna trust you, Mike, but how can you trust _him_?”

The legs of the chair creak as Michael shifts in place. “Like I said, we talked.”

“That’s not helpful, Mike.”

“Sam.” Their mother’s cuts in, Sam’s name coming out in that cold manner they’ve both been trained since childhood to know means she’s serious. “I think we need to just trust that Michael knows what he’s doing." 

“What? Mom! How can we? He’s a half-vampire talking about letting a full-fledged bloodsucker keep him on the straight and narrow? How is that supposed to _work_?” Sam throws his hands in the air, but by some miracle stays seated. “Like what is he even gonna do? Is he gonna bring you rats? Or _dogs_? Or **_people_**?!” Sam’s voice keeps getting higher and higher pitched as his rant goes on, the sound grating on Michael’s over-sensitive ears. “And just tell you not to drink too much? I mean, come on!”

"No. Not like that."

"Then what's it like, Michael!?" 

“It’s gonna be his, okay?” Michael bites out through gritted teeth, tired of pulling punches when his brother isn’t. “That’s how Star and Laddie were able to hold out for so long. By drinking Max’s blood. Every few days. David kept it on hand for them. He’s agreed to do the same for me. I’m not gonna _hurt_ anyone.”  

“ **But you’re gonna _drink_ ** **_his_ ** **_blood_! ** Jesus, Mike! Mom, do hear this?!”

“I’m sitting right here, Sam. Of course I hear it.” 

“And you’re okay with it?!”

“Sam…” Their mother sighs, her eyes shifting from Sam to Michael then back again. “I honestly don’t know how to feel about it. But...but, I’ve been talking with Dad, and I think we need to let Michael handle this his way.”

Sam slouches back in his seat, a frown carving a beaten expression onto his face. “Yeah, sure, let’s listen to the old man who let us move here in the first place. He knows so much, why’d he let us come here, huh? Why didn’t he tell us to stay far, far away?” 

“...the devil you know.”

Sam’s head swivels back towards Michael. “Huh?”

Michael sighs. “Better the devil you know, Sam. Grandpa’s lived here his whole life, and his heart’s still beating. Managed to keep Mom safe growing up too. He probably thought he could do the same for us.” Michael gives them a self-deprecating smile. “He just didn’t count on me being an idiot.” 

Sam slips further in the chair, crossing his arms and tucking his hands beneath his pits. “I wish we’d stayed in Phoenix.” Their mother’s face crumbles at the mumbled declaration. 

“Oh, Sam...I’m so sorry. But no one could have known  _this_ would happen.” 

“Grandpa could’ve.”

Michael doesn’t disagree, but what their grandfather said to him was right. Michael’s a big boy, and able to make his own choices. “This wasn’t Grandpa’s fault, Sam. No one made me follow them. No one made me drink.”

“But you didn’t know! If you _had_ you never would have done it!”

Michael swipes his tongue along his lower lip. He wants to be able to say that Sam’s right. That he wouldn’t have. But he _can’t_. Because if he’d been given all the facts up front and _then_ met David? If the blond had smiled at him the same way he did that first night, or asked him to go for a ride like he did the second?

 _‘You don’t have to beat me, Michael. Just have to try and keep up.’_  

Even knowing what he was, even if Star hadn’t been there as an unwilling lure, Michael thinks he may have still gone after him. 

A weak, untruthful “yeah” is the only response he can muster as a result.

After a beat their mother clears her throat, and Michael just catches her turning away from him and back to Sam. “Sam...I know this is confusing and scary - I’m scared too - but, I trust Michael.” 

She meets Michael’s gaze as she says it, with a smile that seems sincere for all that it also seems pained. “And if this is what he says he has to do, so that...so that…” She trails off, her voice going soft. “Then we’re just going to have to except it.” Her eyelids flutter in a rapid series of blinks. Michael can smell a hint of salt, but no tears fall.

Doesn’t make him feel less like shit for being the reason she wants to cry.

A minute that feels like a hundred passes in silence before Sam speaks, sitting up in his chair. “Maybe Grandpa can get you blood, Mike.”

The statement is so out of left field, that Michael can’t even begin to parse it. “What?”  

“Ya know, from all those things he’s constantly stuffing. He drains the blood first, right?” His brother sounds so excited at the prospect that under other circumstances, Michael would probably laugh. “Could that help?”

Michael hadn’t honestly given the idea any consideration. Not when the thought of drinking from a dog or a cat or a deer or _whatever_ leaves him indifferent, but imagining sinking his teeth into a _person_ causes him to break out into a cold sweat with need.

He’s not about to tell his brother that though. “I don’t know, Sam.”

“Worth a shot though, right? Maybe then you won’t need that jerk anymore.”

Michael twitches. In no way prepared to list the many reasons why that’s just not true for him these days. So instead, he nods along. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

“Great! We’ll ask him, just as soon as he gets home from the Widow Johnson’s!" His brother pauses, chewing on his lower lip. His voice when he asks his next question is smaller, less sure. “You’ll still be here then right, Mike? Not going anywhere again?”

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be still here when he gets home.” 

Their Mom frowns. “Are you planning to leave again after, Michael?” 

Michael shifts in his seat. “Not tonight. But...Some nights I’ll need to... _go_.” He fidgets again, ready to flee, but also wanting to see this conversation through to the end. So that he never has to have it again. “Being around people is....hard. Easier with you guys, but...I’m still getting use to all of this, and sometimes that’s gonna mean I’m not here.” 

Michael shrugs, trying for lighthearted. “Plus side, grocery bills will be lower. I can’t really eat as much as I use to.” 

Sam snorts, but their mother just looks more unhappy. “What about school, honey? It starts again in a few weeks.” 

“I - uh - I won’t be going back to school.”

“Michael-” 

“No, Mom. Won’t meaning _can’t._ Even if I _could_ stay awake during the day long enough, it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to be stuck in a building like that with...” Michael swallows down the rest of the sentence, the looks on his mother’s and brother’s faces enough for him to know he doesn’t need to.

“But it’s okay. I’d been planning to find a job anyway. Help out with the house.” He gets up from the table and rinses out his mug in the sink, grateful for the momentary reprieve of meeting their disappointed gazes. “I’ll double down on that. See what night-shift work is out there.” He leans back against the counter, forcing a smile as he voices yet another lie. “It’ll work out, you’ll see.”

He can tell by the expressions on both of their faces that he’s not the only one that doesn’t believe it.

But maybe if he says it enough, one day they will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the distinct lack of David in this chapter, folks. He'll be back in the next one though, promise! (Seriously, the bastards basically end up on a freaking date! That was not planned. So stay tuned!)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I believe I promised you all something like a date, right? Right. Here you go! Hope you enjoy.

* * *

In the two nights that Michael’s with his family, David kills six people.

It’s more - far more - than he normally needs to feed on in such a short time frame. Hell, in a given _week_ he could be satisfied with just one, if they’re succulent enough. Two if they were stringy. But the truth of the matter is that while the exterior evidence of his run in with the horns had been erased by the time he’d revealed himself to Michael, the interior wounds were still knitting themselves together.

And the amount of blood that he’d allowed Michael to drink from him during the course of their multi-night reunion (as worth it as it was) only exacerbated the problem. He’d managed to offset the drain on his system by drinking from the boy, but he’d still been left weaker than he’s use to. 

Weaker than he’s comfortable with.

So when Michael awoke his second night in the cave, David didn’t stop him from leaving. Just waved him off, counting down until enough minutes had gone by that he could fly from the nest and hunt unseen.

He gorges himself the first night Michael is away, four people in a span of three hours. The hunts are artless. Messy.

 _Brutal_.

Alone as he is, his enjoyment of the activity is minimized. Where Marko and Paul and Dwayne should be, there’s only empty air. More than once, it catches him unaware. Expecting there to be laughter on the wind he’ll reach out for a connection that’s been severed.

It’s like he’s lost a limb.

_Or three._

It throws him off. Makes him sloppy. His meals pay the price in pain, and fear. Which should make them all the sweeter, but it all tastes sour instead.

He’s not prone to maudlin tendencies, but he also hasn’t been alone like this since he was human. It’s too quiet in his head. An echoing kind of silence where his brother’s should be - where _his family_ is _supposed to be_.

 _All_ of his family.

For as crazy as Max had gotten in the last few years, he’d still been their _maker_. And while David had entertained the idea of leaving him to his suburban fantasy, and taking off with the boys to somewhere they’d be less constrained by their elder’s mercurial moods and suffocating rules, he’d never imagined Max _dying_. Not in any scenario.

Hell, even with as much trouble as Star was, and as fucked up as the mere _existence_ of Laddie had been, David was use to their presence in his mind. Having the thread to them cut is disconcerting.  

(He wonders if they can even feel the difference. If they miss it at all. Maybe he should pay them a visit and ask.)

Now all that’s left holding him in place is a thread of awareness connecting him to Michael. Even that is different though.

He’s given _so much_ of his blood to Michael - both in the days before his family was killed, and now in the after as well - that their connection isn’t like the thin, reedy ones David shared with Star and Laddie, who’d never drank from him.  

But it’s also not like the solid, stalwart ones he’d had with his brothers either. Nor is it like the somewhat lopsided one that existed between him and Max.

There’s a different kind of a tone to it. One that he hasn’t quite been able to learn the notes of yet. A byproduct of his first attempt at making a vampire with his own blood, he guesses. But doesn’t know. Not for sure.

Whatever the cause, he knows he likes how it _feels_. Likes being able to reach out through the distance, and know that Michael's there. Though he likes it better when Michael’s close. Likes how it thrums and pulses and groans and _grows_ when the blood flows between them. When they touch.

_When they fuck._

He’s eager to see how it changes when Michael finally gives in, and truly joins him.

The people David kills the second night that Michael is away don’t die to satiate his hunger (the night before had quenched his thirst enough for a month), nor are they needed for healing (the previous evening’s overindulgence had also addressed that concern). No, he kills them because he _can_. Because he wants to. Because he’s angry.

And lonely.

And he kills them in preparation.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Michael that feeding him would have its own consequences. That the blood had to come from _somewhere_. Six people dying in two nights may be more than Michael was imagining, but it’s also not like he _asked_. And at least this way, David is assured that when Michael does return (which should be soon, if Michael is to be believed), he’ll have enough of a surplus to be able to satisfy the half-vampire without weakening himself further.

The pair he feeds on the second night are a brother and sister. Tourists from out east who made the mistake of exploring too close to the hotel for David to let them go. As he’s drinking the girl down, the boy crying on the floor at his feet, he imagines that they’re the Frog brothers. Imagines the big, fat tears rolling down their faces as they kick and thrash and beg for their lives.

He enjoys the meal a hell of a lot more that way.

But the truth is, when he _does_ kill the Frogs (it’s only a matter of when, far as he’s concerned, not _if_ ), he doesn’t even want to drink from them. Just wants to tear their throats out in front of one another so that they can watch each other’s lives slip away - _slow_ \- in a red, sticky mess of their own creation.

But he also wants Michael there with him for that. Enjoying the show. And that means waiting until _Michael_ wants it too. Which means being _patient_.

It’s not something he’s _use_ to doing, but damn it all if he isn’t willing to learn and adapt. It’ll be worth it in the end, though. Once he gets Michael to drop his ludicrous plan to _not_ kill his meals and has him fully by his side. _For good_.

And after Michael's quick agreement that the Frogs are fair game if they ever return to the hotel? Well, David’s certain that - _at some point_ \- he’ll be able to get Michael where he wants him. And after _that_? Getting him on board with his plans for the teenage hunters will be a piece of cake.

In the meantime, David can play the game the way that Michael wants.

Hell, he can even concede that Michael has a _point_ about the damage that too many missing person reports in one town can cause. It’s something that Max had harped on plenty in the past too, insisting that they limit the damage to tourists and transients as much as possible.  

But David and his boys had gotten restless the last few years. _Bored_. Stuck in the same place for too long. That restlessness had bred recklessness, and they’d stopped being as selective as they’d been in the past. Stopped being as careful. Indulged their baser instincts.

They’d enjoyed the **_hell_** out of themselves, but maybe a little restraint now could be a good thing.

A _useful_ thing.

Michael returns to the hotel an hour after sunset on the third night. His skin pale. Pasty. His breathing sporadic and clipped. A quick dip into his mind is all David needs to tell him _why_.

Lust rushes through David at the direction of Michael’s thoughts. “Hungry, Michael?”

Michael licks his lips, features shifting as he locks his sights on David across the room. “ _Starving_.”  

A devilish grin grows on David’s face at the admission. “Then _come here._ ”

Michael does.

At least there's one indulgence both David and Michael can agree there is no reason to restrain.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

After an... _enthusiastic_ reunion, Michael is left lying supine on the couch trying to get his breathing back under control.

Michael hadn't been certain what to expect when he returned to the hotel, but he'd be lying if he said that he hadn't had certain...  _expectations_. 

He's not disappointed. 

There’s a thin layer of sweat drying against his skin in the cool air, while the rush of orgasm and David’s blood through his system begins to slow. With not a little effort, he manages to tug his boxers back up over his hips, but only because they’d never fully left his legs. His jeans on the other hand, remain out of reach in a pile with his shoes next to the couch. Which, given that Michael’s still wearing his socks, he’s sure means he looks like a damn fool.

Luckily, he’s too well-fucked and well-fed at the moment to care. 

“How’s your control tonight, Michael?” 

He rocks his head towards the blond whose sprawled out in his chair across the way - cigarette burning red where he sucks the smoke in - black-jean clad legs spread out in front of him so that his knees barely bend. The jeans are still unbuttoned, the zipper tugged up to the middle, like the vampire lost interest halfway through the task. A sliver of his lower abdomen is visible where his shirt lays askew, trails of pink dotting the smooth landscape of flesh. The product of Michael’s clawing hands from a few minutes before.

It’s a mouth-watering sight. One Michael would love to capitalize on, if he wasn’t drained of all energy at the moment. _Fuck_ , even with his exhaustion, it makes his cock stir beneath his boxers. Interest piquing despite his recent release.

Michael’s not sure if the almost constant feelings of lust that the vampire inspires in him are a byproduct of the blood or if it’s just _David_. He figures time will tell, and until he figures out which it is, he’s just gonna go with it.

(Seems that’s his new motto for life these days.) 

Remembering that David asked him a question, Michael forces his mouth to form a response. “Why?”

“Been cooped up in Santa Carla too long. Need to get out.” David rises from the chair in a smooth, effortless motion, securing his jeans and scooping his coat up off the floor where it had landed earlier and sliding it on. “You drink enough to handle being ‘round strangers?”

Michael sits up, grabbing his jeans and slipping them back on, then doing the same with his shoes. Thinking the question over while he dresses, seeking out the ever-present knot of hunger in his stomach, and finding it satisfied enough. Still seated, he meets David’s questioning gaze, and nods. “Think so.”

David grins. “Then let’s go for a ride.” He snags Michael’s jacket from the floor and tosses it to him before grabbing the keys to his own bike off the milk crate table next to the couch.

Michael shrugs the coat on, fishing his keys out, and follows after David up the stairs. The notion of going somewhere with the vampire has him feeling a wary sort of intrigue. He’s curious, but doesn’t want to end up so in over his head that he kills someone. “Where we heading?”

David smirks at Michael over his shoulder. “There’s a bar about thirty minutes up the coast. The boys and I would go there, pretty regular. It’s a dive, but with decent beer. And more importantly, they know how to keep their mouths shut.”

Michael stops next to his bike, one hand on the bars. “Uhh, I don’t have a fake ID, David.” He use to, but his mother found it before they left Phoenix. He’d argued that he was eighteen, and it wasn’t a big deal, she’d argued that just meant he could go to jail if he was caught with it. In the end, there’d been lots of disappointed sighing before she’d diced it up.

David laughs. “Don’t worry about it, Michael. It ain’t the kinda place that’s gonna card. ‘Sides, even if they _were_ , they _won’t_. Not with me there.”

Figuring David knows what he’s talking about, Michael climbs on his bike, and they set off up the coast. They follow the dunes until they hit city limits, then they cut up and across until they meet up with the asphalt of Route One.

Riding has always been a damn enjoyable activity for Michael, but with David next to him - sharing thoughts when their words get stolen by the wind - it’s heightened to a new level. And he finds a genuine smile blooming across his mouth at the experience.

The smile falters when he recalls three missing riders. Recalls the shouts of delight they’d all share as they’d push their bikes further, faster. Skipping over sand and roots at frightening speed, without a care in the world. The thought is accompanied by a wave of melancholy and grief so acute and strong that Michael begins to doubt the thoughts are even his.

When he glances David’s way and see’s the blond’s jaw clenched tight, all signs of enjoying the ride wiped clean from his face, he knows for certain they aren’t.

He’s not sure what to say in the face of the sudden influx of emotion he’s feeling. He knows that he wishes he could make it _less_. But how the hell can he, when he’s the reason _why_ David’s brothers are dead? Even if it wasn’t him that dealt the final blows?

He could apologize, he thinks, but he doesn’t know how to do that either. Especially when he’d done what he did to keep his own family _safe_. And he won’t apologize for that.

He _can’t_.  

The whole train of thought makes him think of Sam. Makes him imagine - for several seconds too long - the amount of rage and pain and heartache he’d feel if anything happened to him. Knows for certain that if anyone dared to hurt his little brother, he’d tear them limb from limb. Drink them dry, and leave their corpse to rot in the desert so that it could be picked clean by vultures.

It’s not an exaggeration.

A thread of vicious laughter echoes inside his skull making him dart his eyes to David. The vampire’s looking at him through amber irises, easily visible to Michael even on the dark highway, lips turned up in a cruel grin. _‘Exactly, Michael. That’s it_ **_exactly_** _.’_  

_‘I’m sorry.’_

As the thought slips from Michael to David, Michael finds that he means it. Not for doing what he felt he had to so that his family could stay safe, but that doing it meant David losing his own.

Because if David felt the way for them that Michael feels for his, then Michael can’t understand how the vampire _hasn’t_ gone off on a bloody spree of vengeance yet.  

When David next catches Michael’s gaze across the expanse of pavement, he appears calmer, more human; thoughts seeming to echo his outward appearance. It makes Michael feel like something heavy that’s been hanging between them has lifted.

The rest of the ride is silent, but comfortable. They pull up outside of a building that appears to be held together with just a handful of nails and spite. There’s a neon sign flickering in the window that reads ‘Bar’ (or it _would_ if the ‘A’ was still lit). The parking lot is filled with motorcycles, mostly Harleys and road racers, but there are also a handful of dirt-bikes and custom pieces as well. Along with a couple of ancient as shit pickup trucks. 

The two of them park, and Michael fingers his keys while watching the entrance with trepidation. “So how’s this work?” 

David smirks. “Generally, we go inside. Have some drinks. Maybe play some pool. _Relax_. It’s not that hard, Michael.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Not what I meant, _dick_. I mean, did you and the guys...did you hunt here?” 

“Not for food. Sometimes we might find someone to have a good time with for a few hours. But if we met them here, then they lived to see another day.” 

Michael blinks, surprised. “Why?”

“Gotta have limits, Michael. If we were to hunt everywhere we go, there’d be nothing left. It’s good to have a few places where the people don’t run screaming when they see you. Makes life more interesting.”

“Huh. So you come here for drinks, and games, and sex, and that’s it?”

“In a nutshell.”

“That why we’re here tonight?”

David flashes him a tooth-bearing grin. “Don’t know yet, gotta see how the night plays out.”

They head in, and Michael thinks that as far as dives go, it ain’t a bad one. It’s clean (ish). The chairs mostly match the tables, and the Stones are pouring out of a jukebox somewhere.

Cigarette smoke runs thick between the walls, obscuring the occupants, though Michael’s enhanced senses are learning how to parse out where everyone in a space is at any given time. So he can tell that there’s a mass of people milling about, but it’s not so jammed that its shoulder to shoulder.

David strolls through to the bar like he owns the place. Judging by the wary looks he gets from the bartender, as well as a few of the patrons nearest to the entrance, Michael guesses they have half a clue that the vampire is far from safe, even if they don’t know what he is. David orders them both a bottle of beer, which the bartender slides across the wood to them without comment. Or attempting to card Michael. Hell, the man only gives Michael the most cursory of glances, his eyes focusing more on Michael’s earring than Michael’s face.

Which is weird, but he’s not about to complain.

Drinks in hand, they make their way to an empty booth with a clear view of the pool table, David snagging a bowl of beer nuts off an abandoned table along the way. 

Michael sips at his beer - some lager he’s never heard of before. It’s cool, refreshing - _decent_ , like David said it would be - and he feels himself relaxing back into the vinyl seating as the liquid settles in his stomach.

David pops a few of the nuts in his mouth, crunching on them loudly, before washing them back with a gulp of his drink. His eyes coast over the occupants of the room, lingering for a bit on the people playing pool, before tilting his head towards Michael. “So, Michael. What do you _hear_?” 

“Hmm?” Michael swallows his mouthful of beer, confused.

David taps a finger against the side of his head, and nods towards the room.

Michael squints, looking around the room then back to David. He hears a lot of things. Chatter from people at the bar, the record shifting in the jukebox, the clash of the cue ball knocking another ball into a pocket. But nothing inside his head. “Nothing. Not like that. Should I?” 

David shrugs. “You will. Eventually. Was wondering how far along you’d gotten.”

“You mean, the whole…” Michael gestures to his temple. “Isn’t just between - um - _us_?”

The vampire smirks around the mouth of the bottle, sending a thought straight to Michael. _‘Nope. How do you think I made you see maggots, Michael?’_

Michael chokes on his drink, to David’s intense amusement. Sputtering, he grabs a beer nut and tosses it at the chortling vampire, who manages to catch it with his mouth - because _of course_ he does. “Prick.” He wipes at the spit up beer on his chin, sucking it off his fingers, not missing how the laughter across the table slows to a stop when David’s attention is drawn to the action.

The corners of Michael’s lips lift up in an impish grin as he raises the bottle of beer back to his mouth, taking a deliberate sip, tongue pressed to the lip of the bottle; enjoying the way that David’s pupils dilate further. Feeling more playful than he has in a long while, he sends a thought back. _‘Want something, David?’_  

David’s expression intensifies. _‘Always.’_

Michael snorts, thinking that response sums up the vampire perfectly. He gets a taste of his own medicine though when David angles his head back, draining the last of his beer in one, long swallow. Michael’s gaze fixates on the way the pale column of his throat moves as the liquid slides down it, a sudden bolt of arousal striking him when he recalls dragging his tongue along that flesh just a few short hours ago.

Recalls the sound David made when Michael bit down, slipping his hand into the front of his jeans at the same time, and- 

_‘Careful, Michael. It’s a long ride back.’_

Michael lifts his gaze back up to David’s, finding restrained heat and want staring back at him. Michael licks his lips. _‘Who says we have to ride back first?’_

A cheshire grin spreads over David’s face. “ _Fuck._ Knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Michael laughs. The tension that had been building between them not broken, but eased somewhat. Which is probably for the best, as Michael’s not quite ready to call it a night - even for another round of mind-numbing sex.

David gestures to the waitress to bring them more beer, while Michael turns his focus back out to the bar in general. He’s not sure how to go about reading someone’s thoughts. With David it just sort of _happens_. As easy as regular speech. But the mind’s of the people in the bar are opaque. He taps his fingers on the tabletop in time with the music and settles on watching the game of pool playing out a dozen feet away. 

“You any good?”

Michael shrugs at the question, glancing David’s way. “I’m okay. Haven’t played enough to be better than that. Wasn’t really a thing in Phoenix.”

“What was a ‘thing’ in Phoenix?”

Michael looks at David again, surprised to see the other man relaxing back on his side of the booth with a look of interest on his face. “Uhh...don’t know. Played football. Baseball too. Once I got the bike, there were some trails out in the desert my friends and I'd go for rides on. That sorta thing.” He rolls his empty bottle between his hands, feeling restless. “How about you? You any good?" 

David smirks. “Yeah, I am. You want, we can grab the next game. Give you some pointers.”

“Sure.”

The waitress arrives with their drinks piled on a tray with a handful of other orders. She’s older than Michael, but only by a few years. There’s fading circles beneath her eyes, and her teeth are a little crooked, but she has a pleasant smile that lingers on Michael for several seconds when she hands him his bottle, fingertips just brushing his. 

He can hear her blood pumping fast beneath her skin, but his hunger is sated enough that it doesn’t wake at the contact. Pleased that he’s not in danger of turning into a murderous animal, he gifts her an easy grin back. “Thanks.”

Her heart rate spikes, just a bit, her smile going broader, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Anytime.” She places David’s bottle on the table, rather than handing it directly to the blond like she did with Michael. “You boys need anything else?”

David’s grin is darker, teetering on predatory. “Bring another round when these go empty, and we’re good.”

Her smile skitters away as she meets David’s gaze, a hint of fear seeping out of her pores. “Sure-sure thing. I’ll keep an eye out.” 

“You do that.” 

She nods and scampers off to the other side of the bar with her loaded tray. David chuckles at her retreating back, but doesn’t say anything, just popping his bottle open and taking a swig.

Michael frowns at his companion. “What was that about?”

David slides his eyes back to Michael, holding his for several beats. _‘Focus on her, Michael. See what you can pick up.’_  

Irritation pricks at Michael, but it’s fleeting, so he does as directed. Following her movements around the bar for so long that he worries she’ll notice. But if she does, she doesn’t let on. When she disappears into the kitchen, Michael gives up.

“No luck?”

“No.” Michael finds he’s both annoyed that he wasn’t able to read anything off of her, and glad. The idea that he’s gonna be freaking telepathic at some point a bit much. He imagines having multiple voices bouncing around in his head all the time would probably drive him batty.

“Don’t worry so much, Michael. It’s like throwing a switch. On or off. You’ll have to focus to be able to do it. Won’t just happen on accident.”

Michael tilts his head at the blond. Recalling the many times that David’s snagged thoughts from Michael’s mind, and the more than a handful of times that Michael’s done the same without trying. “It does with you.”

David leans forward, closing some of the distance the table has forced between them. “Because we’re the _same_ , Michael.”

Michael takes another gulp of his beer, but doesn’t have anything to say in response. It’s true to an extent, he knows that. But he’s not quite at the stage where he’s willing to admit it out loud. “So, you gonna tell me what she was thinking when she looked at you that had her running scared?”

“Nope. If I tell you, you won’t have any incentive to get better at reading them yourself. And trust me, it’s a skill you'll want to improve.” 

“Why?”

“You mean besides the obvious level of enjoyment you can get from reading a person’s thoughts without them knowing it?”

Michael doesn’t see how that would be all that amusing, more like potentially traumatizing. But David having a different perspective on things isn’t surprising. “Yeah, aside from that.” 

David’s voice drops low. “For starters? This bullshit plan you have to _not_ kill your meals? It’ll be a damn sight easier if you can tweak their memories, don’t you think?”

Michael blinks at him, rapid motions of his eyelids as he processes that statement. “Shit.”

“Yeah. So…” David gestures towards the bar with his bottle of beer. “Start practicing.” He takes a sip, and shrugs. “Or don’t. Your call.”

As dazed by the concept of altering people’s memories so he can feed _without killing_ _anyone_ as he is by the idea that David made the suggestion unprompted, Michael doesn’t notice when David exits the booth. It’s only when the blond drops a hand on his shoulder that he comes back to attention. “Come on. Pool table’s open. We’re up.” 

The rest of the night passes in a beer-stained haze, Michael losing two games in a row to David, and failing - horribly - to read anyone’s mind.

But, when they stumble - comfortably buzzed and laughing - into the alley behind the bar; dragging alcohol laced kisses from one another’s mouths and pawing at their clothes to get to skin - it doesn’t feel like Michael’s really lost anything.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we have, not just some bonding time between Michael and Sam, but also some David/Michael smut! (That part begins about two-thirds through the chapter, starting immediately after Michael drops Sam off, in case that is not your thing and you want to give it a pass.)
> 
> Also, would you look at that! Longest chapter to date, clocking in at over 5,000 words. Yay!
> 
> Once again, a HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who is reading this story and following along, your support keeps me motivated!
> 
> Hope you enjoy :-)

* * *

The speed at which Michael falls into a routine between his life with his family and his time with David would be staggering if it didn’t feel so natural.

As summer gives way to autumn, he begins alternating where he stays every few nights. It’s not a schedule or anything so tidy as that. Just, when the itch to get out, to get away, to _feed_ claws its way up his throat, he’ll hop on his bike and head towards the hotel.

Towards _David_.

It’s not all sex and blood, either. Michael almost feels like it would be easier to understand if that’s all that it _were_. Sure, that’s a part of it (a large, incredibly _enjoyable_ part of it), but they also just...hang out. Like the friends that Michael had once assumed they would be, before the whole vampire thing reared its head.

There’s an... _easiness_ in their time together. The restless, hungry _thing_ that’s been growing inside of Michael a little calmer when David’s near.

Maybe he should question why that is, but he doesn’t.

But when the guilt of being out of contact for too long eats at him, Michael makes the drive back to his family.

The time he spends with them is normalizing. Reminds him what he’s hanging on for. Why he’s not just giving into the constant low-level desire to grab the nearest human and sink his fangs in deep and end the half-life he’s living.

“Hey, Mike, Mom said she’s gotta work late tonight, so she left money for dinner.”

Michael frowns. “She’s working late again?” Michael hadn’t been happy that their Mom insisted on staying on at the video store, after everything.

 _‘I can’t just_ quit _, Michael. With Max..._ missing _, well, the place is in_ chaos _. I can’t just up and leave them. They need me.’_

He’d argued that she’d be better off anywhere else, because really, how _safe_ could it be continuing to work at a place owned by a vampire they’d killed and who now had a missing persons report filed in his name?

She’d looked him dead in the eyes and said that if she could trust _his judgment_ , then he could try trusting _hers._

He’d shut up about it after that, but he still didn’t like it. Didn’t like the long hours, and the longer weeks she had to put in. Even with the danger to her from the things that go bump in the night minimized now that Michael basically _was one of them_ , it was still wearing on her, and he didn’t like seeing her so tired all the time.

“Yeah. Don’t see that changing anytime soon.” Sam jumps up to sit on the kitchen counter, counting out the money their mother left. It's not much, but that's not surprising, given how tight their budget is. “Unless you wanna get a job with her there? I know you’re still looking, and they clearly need the help.”

“I offered. Turned me down.”

Sam goggles at him. “Really? She did?”

Michael snorts. “Not Mom. That manager, Maria?” Annoyance flares up in Michael at the memory. His mother had looked caught between elated that Michael wanted to work at the same shop as her, and a little uncomfortable with the whole concept. Not that it mattered in the end. “Said it was a conflict of interest or some bullshit.”

“What, cause Mom works there too?”

Michael shrugs. “I guess.”

“Huh. Maybe she just doesn’t like your face.” Sam smirks good-naturedly at Michael. “Wanna hit that one pizza shop on the boards with me?”

“The one with the calzones bigger than your head, or the one with the fries?”

“The one with the fries. Pretty sure the calzone place has rats bigger than my head too.” Sam wrinkles his nose. “Unless you _wanna_ go to the calzone place, take care of their pest problem for them?”

Michael snorts. “As appetizing as that sounds, think I’d rather have fries tonight.”

“Cool. Can I drive?”

“Sure.” Michael waits a beat for Sam’s face to light up before adding with a smirk. “Once you get your own car. Or bike. ‘til then, you’re riding bitch.”

“Dammit, Michael. Why you gotta be a douche?”

Michael reaches out, ruffling Sam’s hair, laughing when his brother tries to duck in time and fails. “Why you gotta make it so easy?”

Michael slings an arm around Sam’s shoulders as the two of them make their way out of the house and down the drive to the bike, Sam grumbles about being old enough to drive, but doesn’t put up a fight as he climbs over the back of it and grips onto Michael’s sides to hold on.

The noise of the wind whipping past them is too much to allow them to speak, though Michael can feel the way Sam’s chest rumbles as he hums a song while they ride.

It’s peaceful. Like old times. 

They park at the usual spot at the boards. Where once there would have been a smattering of custom rides filling the lot, Michael’s is the only bike there tonight. The emptiness makes him pause. Makes him wonders if David’s back at the hotel, or out somewhere else. Hunting or otherwise. Wonders what he does when Michael’s not around, and he’s already fed.

He brushes the thought away. Tonight he’s with his brother. No use wondering about David’s whereabouts.

They make their way into the pizza parlor of choice for the night. For a weekday, the place is busy, but not packed like it would be on a weekend, or even at the height of summer, for which Michael is grateful.

Just because he’s managed to get his hunger (mostly) under control, doesn’t mean he’s ready to push it.

The girl at the counter taking their orders is Michael’s age. When he looks at her, she smiles. It’s a nice smile. Settled on plump lips beneath a somewhat sloped nose. It brightens her brown eyes. There’s a thick riot of tight, dark curls pulled back in a high ponytail trailing down her shoulders.

She’s pretty. Exactly the kind of girl Michael would have gone for _before_.

 _Now_ though...now she smells good enough to _eat_.

It’s a disconcerting transition to come to terms with, one that Michael hopes will pass the more time that goes by. He figures it must, but he also worries that it _won’t_.

He shakes it off, and his brother and him place their orders. She looks to Michael for payment, giggling when he elbows Sam to do the honors.

Sam hands over the money, angling his head in a manner reminiscent of Nanook. “Hey, I know you from school?”

The girl pauses as she’s getting their change, narrowing her focus towards Sam, eyes lightening up to match her smile when she recognizes him. “Are you in Ms. Collins homeroom?”

Sam nods, a pleased smile on his face. “Yeah, I am. Carly, right?”

Her lips tilt up and down like she’s holding back a laugh as she taps her nametag. “Yup. That’s me.”

Michael chuckles at the blush that stains his brother’s face, drawing the girl’s attention back to him. She tilts her head like she’s trying to place him. “How about you? You go there too?”

“Uh. No. I’m not in school anymore.”

“Oh.” She glances down and then up again at him, biting her lip. “That’s too bad.”

Michael doesn’t agree, so he just shrugs. There’s a line forming behind them, so they cut the impromptu conversation off, grabbing their drinks and settling at a table with only _slightly_ sticky seats while they wait for their food to arrive.

Which happens so soon after that Michael’s suspicious about whether it’s their food they're getting, or someone else’s.

“Hey there, table five!” When the waitress - who is the same girl who took their order at the counter - arrives with their food, the first thing that Michael notices is her scent has changed. It’s richer, bordering on sweet. A little excited, a little nervous. A little something else that he doesn’t want to consider too closely. It makes the coppery tang of her blood pulsing steady beneath her skin all the more enticing. It draws Michael’s attention to her throat in a way that he knows isn’t good.

“We got one order of fries and two slices of pepperoni. Not that hungry tonight, huh?”

He wasn’t hungry when he woke up tonight. Had fed from David just the night before in fact. He wasn’t hungry the whole ride here, with his brother sitting at his back. And he wasn’t hungry when they placed their orders and sat the fuck down, _and yet_ he can feel his hunger stretching and waking, interested in the option it sees presenting itself when the girl speaks.

He tells it to shut the fuck up and go back to sleep, and forces his gaze northward, so that he can focus on the girl’s - _Carly’s_ \- face. Because if he’s learned anything, it’s that seeing someone as a _person_ is key to him keeping his hunger from seeing them as a meal.

“Not really.” Michael manages to force the lie out of his mouth through the thrumming noise beginning to wrap itself around him. Across from him in the booth he can hear his brother crack a joke about watching his figure. It makes her laugh.

The sound breaks through the haze in Michael’s head, the sudden bloodlust settling back down where it belongs. He heaves a sigh, relieved. Blinking he lifts his head up from the tabletop and back towards Carly. A little amazed by how fast he was able to get his urges under control, he can’t help but meet her broad smile with a small one of his own.  

She meets his eyes when he does, that same nervous/excited scent growing stronger. It’s only when she reaches up to smooth her ponytail back, and a stray thought bounces from her head to Michael’s, that Michael realizes just how hard he’s been focusing on her.

_‘Oh, man, he’s so cute! And he’s looking at me like he-’_

Michael blinks, turning his head and breaking the unexpected connection. _Shit_. _That was weird_. He sucks down a sip of his soda, the cloying sweetness enough to make him want to gag, but a damn good distraction all the same.

Michael keeps his eyes diverted until he hears her tell Sam to let her know if they need anything else, and leaves them to their food. When he looks back up, Sam’s grinning at him like an idiot.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Don’t.”

His brother waggles his eyebrows, tipping his head back towards the retreating waitress in the least subtle way possible. “Think she likes you, Bro.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So…?”

“So, what, Sam?”

“You should talk to her.”

Michael stops with a fry midway to his mouth, and just gives his brother a _look_. He can see the exact moment that the gears in his brother’s brain turn full circle as Sam processes exactly _why_ Michael’s not going to do that. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. I mean, I know before that you said that everyone except for like Mom and me and stuff smelled like... but I didn’t think... you actually meant _everyone_ everyone? As in, _everyone?_ ”

Michael nods, chewing on his fry. He swallows it down, clearing his throat when the space between them turns awkward and tense. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

Sam jumps in his seat. “Sure! Yeah. Course. Umm…” Sam takes a bite of his pizza, muttering around it.

Michael laughs at his brother, gesturing to his ears to indicate he has no idea what he just said. He continues to munch on the fries in a methodical manner, not wanting to make himself ill, and waits for his brother to be able to speak without a mouthful of food.

The door to the shop opens at his back with a raucous uproar of laughter. Michael glances back in time to watch a foursome of older teens enter. Surfers, if the board shorts and rash guards they’re sporting even after dark in the middle of September are any indication.

They’re jostling each other as they make their way to the counter, enjoying themselves in as loud and obnoxious a manner as possible. Testosterone - a palpable odor that Michael can unfortunately pick up on these days - exuding from the lot of them in a lingering kind of stench that pricks at Michael's nerves. The hunger he’s only just managed to beat back down raises its head again, curious.

“-job hunt going?”

Michael jerks back around to face his brother. He rewinds the last few seconds, parsing out what the question was, and shrugs, picking a fry off the plate and dipping it in ketchup. He grimaces at the taste, which is far more sour than it use to be. “Not great. Not a lot out there for night-shift, especially for a drop out.”

He snatches another fry off of the plate - avoiding the ketchup this time, and earning a smirk masquerading as a smile from his brother, who’s been making a point of ensuring that Michael eats solid foods on occasion - and gestures at his brother with it. “Stay in school, Sammy.”

Sam snorts. “Don’t worry, Mike, I’m not exactly eager to join the workforce. ‘Sides, Mom would _freak_ if I tried to quit. Besides, one of us has to be the _good_ son.” His face pales as soon as the words are out of his mouth, pizza dangling comically from his hand a few inches from his mouth. “Shit, Michael. Man, I’m sorry, I-”

“Stop, Sam. It’s okay. You _are_ the good son.” He smiles at his brother, earning a tentative one back. “Hell, you were the good son back in _Phoenix_ , when the worst I did was stay out too late. You’re practically the Dalai Lama now by comparison.”

“Mike-”

“It’s cool, Sam. Really.” He glances around the restaurant, noting that it’s filled up more since they arrived, and changes the subject. “Speaking of school, how’s it going so far?”

Sam sighs, fiddling with the straw in his drink. “School’s fine.”

“Made any friends? Aside from Carly up there of course?” Michael prods his brother under the table with his foot, hoping to get a laugh out of him, but just getting a set of rolled eyes instead.

“Seriously, Mike?”

“What? I wanna know how you’re doing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. I _have_ friends, Mike. But you don’t like me mentioning them.”

Michael has nothing to say to that, mostly because Sam’s _right_.

Michael eats another fry, while Sam chews and swallows the last bite of his pizza, looking forlorn at the plate when it’s gone. Michael lets out an abbreviated laugh, and slides his pizza towards his brother. Sam frowns at him when he does, but Michael just shrugs. “Go on. I’m not gonna eat it. Fries will hold me just fine.”

He waits for his brother to give in and pick up the slice before broaching the topic again. “I know they’re your friends, Sam, but-” Michael stops mid-sentence, his attention drawn by a commotion on the other side of the room.

“Hey, let off!” It’s the girl - _Carly, damn it_. _She goes to school with your brother and has a name you dick. Use it_ \- swatting the hand of one of the surfer’s away from her ass.

The prick has slicked back hair almost as greasy as his face, and a smarmy smile to match. At her outburst, the surfer and his three friends laugh - the sound both condescending and cruel to Michael’s ears.

Or maybe the sound is perfectly normal and it’s just their _intentions_ Michael's picking up on. The group of brutes seeming to emanate ill-intent. (Something Michael feels like he has a better than average grasp on these days, for all that he was oblivious to it before.)

The jerk of choice leans closer to her, hand skirting down her thigh when he does. “Aww, don’t be like that, Babe. It was a complement!” Michael watches as he slides his hand around to the inside of her leg, tugging her against his side with an exagerrated grunt.  

As she tries - unsuccessfully - to try and peel away, the scent of fear begins to obscure the happier scent she’d had when she’d been at Michael and Sam’s table. The mix of the two off-putting. Michael curls his hands into fists, his disquieted hunger redirecting itself towards a building rage that only feels a little out of place.

Carly pushes at the surfer’s shoulder, but he doesn’t let up, grip tightening as he tries to pull her into his lap, to the amusement of his friends.  

Michael’s over on the other side of the room, prying her out of the punk-ass surfer’s hold, and placing himself between the two before he even realizes what he’s doing. “She. Said. _Lay._ **_Off_**.”

The surfer rushes to his feet. He’s taller than Michael by a good few inches. Broader, heavier. Not that Michael cares.

Not that it _matters_.

‘Grease-face’ looks him up and down, face twisted with disdain. “Who the hell are you, her boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Then what’s it to you?”

Michael shrugs, holding his gaze steady. “Don’t like assholes.”

The guy barks out a laugh, looking back at his friends, “Don’t like _assholes_? Can you believe this guy?” The group echo their leader’s disbelief, mocking, jeering hoots and hollers spilling from them. But it’s all just white noise to Michael, so focused is he on the current source of agitation in front of him.

Michael can _feel_ the blood thumping through the guy’s veins.

He wonders how fast he can make it spill.

Grease-face turns back to Michael, a patronizing smile twisting his lips. “Piss off.” The guy shoves at Michael’s chest, but Michael doesn’t budge. _At all._ It’s strange, the way that his body allows him more complete control then it ever has before.

_He likes it._

The surfer’s mouth drops open, surprised. Michael enjoys the way that his scent begins to alter, confusion lacing through the bluster. Michael tilts his head forward, pulling his upper lip back, showing off teeth just itching to drop. “ _Make me_.” The words are hissed out, a growl underlying them.

That greasy face of his pales, eyes darting to the left side of Michael’s face, then back again. Fear leaks out of his pores, but he steels himself against it, standing straighter. “You’re funeral, _asshole_.”

Adrenaline courses through Michael, fueling a need for violence, a need for _food_ , that Michael doesn’t see any reason to hide. He smiles at the surfer, letting every ounce of his urges show through in the expression. “We’ll see.”

“Hey! You two! You wanna fight, take it outside!” The command is shouted from an older, balding man standing behind the counter, holding a broom in front of a round belly. When Michael glances his way, he sees Carly has retreated to the guy’s side, arms wrapped around her middle. She still smells scared, and she won’t meet Michael’s eyes.

The distraction is enough to cool Michael’s blood a degree, so that when Sam drops a hand on his shoulder - not squeezing, just resting it there - Michael doesn’t snap at him, just turns his head. “Mike? Michael. Come on, Bro. Let’s go.”

Laughter spills out of the table of surfers. This time Michael _can_ hear the jeers coming from them.

“Haha! Yeah, come on, _Michael!”_

“Heh, _Mikey,_ why don’tcha listen to your brother!”

“Run away now!”

The trio at the table are chock full of bravado, excitement at the prospect of a fight obvious in all of them. But the leader, when Michael turns back to him, is less so. Fear alive and kicking in him. Michael can hear the way his pulse speeds and skips when Michael meets his eyes.

He likes that too.

Michael sneers. “ _Next time._ ”

The leader’s throat bobs as he swallows. His voice subdued, but steady. “Yeah. Next time.”

Sam uses the hand he has on Michael’s shoulder to rock him a back a little. Michael allows it, going with the motion, but enjoying the cold rushing dread from the surfer all the same.

He doesn’t drop eye contact until they reach the door, and Sam bundles him out of it.

The ride back to the house is not just quiet, but tense. Michael had planned to stay with his family tonight, but with how keyed up he is, he knows that’s not an option. So he leaves the engine running when he pulls up the drive, resting the bike against his leg while Sam dismounts.

His brother’s fidgeting in place, looking a little lost. A little scared. Michael hates it, but doesn’t have it in him to do anything about it. “Hey, Michael, you’re, uh, you’re not going back, right? To find that guy?”

Michael clenches and unclenches his hands against the bars of the bike. He _wants_ to. _Desperately_. But he knows that if he does, he _will_ kill him. There’s no other way it could end.

And while he’s not so sure that’s a _bad_ thing, the look on his brother’s face - the worry and concern and _fear_ there - tells him that it _must be_. “No.”

“Promise?”

Michael can’t manage to form a response, so he just nods. His brother frowns at the lack of verbal clarification, opening his mouth to say something else, but before he can, Michael kicks off the ground, and tears out of the drive.

He’s angry, riled. _Hungry._

There’s nothing for it but to go to the caverns, and hope that David’s there.

So he does. And _he is_.

“Michael! Ditching the family so soon-”

He’s barely through the entrance to the hotel before he’s on David, cutting off his line of questioning. He launches at him with a snarl, trying to channel the itch to fight - _to feed_ \- into something else.

He digs nails morphed into claws into the lapels of the blond’s coat, yanking their bodies together. Holding him in place so that he can press a hard, violent kiss to his mouth; prying his lips apart, and tangling their tongues together. His fangs slip out, slicing into David’s lips, his tongue.

He groans as the taste of blood fills his mouth. Thrilled when David’s fangs come out to play, and his own blood joins the mix.

 _Revels_ in it.

There’s a deep dig of claws at the back of his head, a hand pressed down hard at the middle of his back, where David latches onto him.

The bloody kiss continues while Michael strips the coat off of David, in a desperate push to get as close as he can to other man. He presses him back, until they hit the wall of the cave.

His head is swimming, his skin is _itching_ , he _wants_ , he _needs_.

He has no idea _what_ , but David lets him _take_.

For a little while.

But when he tries to spin David around, wanting _more,_ the vampire resists. Michael growls, a deep vibrato that is matched by David. The two grapple, claws and fangs tearing at one another, clothing shredded, and skin welting up with shallow tracks of blood as they tumble to the ground.

The pain when Michael’s knees hit the rock and dirt is as welcome as the hiss of pleasure that sings through him when David presses against his back and digs his teeth into Michael’s shoulder, not even drinking, just pressing him down, holding him in place as he yanks Michael’s jeans and boxers below his ass.

Fingers are pressed to Michael’s mouth, a command hissed into his ear. “ _Suck_.” So he does. Drawing the digits between his lips and laving them with his tongue. They are pulled free with a pop, disappearing from view and pressing deep inside of him without further preamble.

He groans, gasping for breath and pushing back towards the welcomed intrusion, but he can’t get any leverage, David’s other hand dug claw deep into his bare hip preventing the motion.

David’s fingers have no sooner brushed that spot inside of him that Michael had no clue even _existed_ before the blond came into his life before they slip away, leaving Michael feeling empty - frustrated at the loss. He snarls over his shoulder. “Why did you-”

His question is cut off as David drags the hand that has just left him across the line of blood trickling down Michael’s throat. Coating his fingers in the sticky, red fluid.

The hand disappears from view again, a moment later Michael feels David’s cock pressing against the cleft of his ass. He groans, but can’t stop a complaint from slipping past his lips. “ _Damn it, David._ We have lube now you know.”

David chuckles in Michael’s ear, blunt teeth tugging at the pierced lobe. “You wanna stop and go grab it, be my guest.”

Whatever Michael’s response may have been, it’s erased as his brain short circuits, the pain/pleasure of David sliding into him overriding everything else.

After that, there’s no more room for thought. All he can focus on, all he _knows_ , is the explosions of sensation bursting through him as he tries to meet David’s thrusts.

He’s panting for breath, limbs shaking from the effort to hold himself up against waves of pleasure as David angles _just right_ and strokes against that same - _amazing_ \- spot that he’s come to truly appreciate in the last few weeks.

His untouched cock bobs against his stomach, _aching_ for contact. Feeling himself contract, pulling closer and closer to the edge, he reaches to touch himself, a furious need for release compelling him, only to have his wrist ensnared by the vampire, his thrusts halting long enough to drag Michael’s hand back to the ground.

‘ _Do._ **_Not_**.’

Michael shudders in David’s hold as the mental command rips through him, his head dipping in a facsimile of a nod.

When David pushes forward again, the motion is deep but _slow._ The vampire’s body lowering to curve against Michael’s back once more, a sound like a purr rumbling through him at Michael’s acquiescence. His tongue darts out in gentle laps against the drying blood at Michael’s shoulder, but he doesn’t bite. Michael shivers at the sensation, feeling beads of sweat dripping down his face from the effort to control himself.

At the end of his ability to hold on, words slip from his lungs. “Dav-David, _please_.”

In an instant, he’s rewarded. A mental barrier he hadn’t known was in place, lowering. It creates a reverb effect inside his mind, _in his body_. So that he’s no longer solely the recipient of David’s achingly slow thrusts, but the _giver._ He can feel the way that his body is clenching against David’s cock inside him, can feel the way that each twitch, each pull, tugs him closer to the edge.

Can feel the way that he’s only holding on by the thinnest of threads. Can feel the way that the press of his hot, sweat and blood slicked skin fuels the flames inside of David, until he feels like he may burn up from within from that alone.

Can feel the vampire’s fierce need to make it _last._ Wanting _more_. _Needing more._ More of Michael’s body. More of Michael’s blood. More of his _heat_.

More of _him_.

Michael comes. An inhuman roar of completion echoing through the cave, and echoing through David as he finishes inside of Michael, his lips panting out cool gusts of air in a barely there kiss at the base of Michael’s skull.

He collapses to the ground, not caring about the mess he’s laying in, so long as he no longer has to hold up both his and David’s weights with limbs turned to jelly in the aftermath of the most intense orgasm he’s ever experienced.

David rolls off his back with a grunt, though he doesn’t go far. The side of his body pressed fully against Michael’s. Michael blinks away the fog that settles in his brain, the mental barrier sliding back up in a careful sort of way, more like gauzy lace than a wall this time, and forces his eyes to focus on his lover just a few inches away.

The corner of David’s mouth ticks upward. “Should I ask what brought that on?”

Michael licks his lips, catching the remains of blood on them. It takes him a minute to parse together David’s meaning. The cause of Michael’s early return to the hotel seems like something that happened a lifetime ago to someone else. “Surfing pricks, down at the boards.”

“ _Ahh_.” David’s smile turns into a shit-eating grin, like he’s finally going to collect on a prize. “Easy solution to _that_ problem. Let’s go _hunting_ , Michael.”

Michael squints. It sounds like a good idea. The _best_ of ideas in fact. Only that’s not right. Because… “Can’t.”

David growls, frustration pouring off of him so thick that Michael can feel it. “And why not? I know you want to, Michael.” The fingers of David’s hand closest to Michael’s side twitch, stroking at his hip. A touch so barely there Michael would think it was an accident, except it doesn’t _stop_. “Why keep denying yourself?”

He’s right, of course. Absolutely _fucking right_. Michael does want to. Now that he’s bringing the memory of the earlier events to the front of his mind. Wants to tear the asshole’s throat out. Wants to hear him scream. Wants to drink and drink until he runs dry.

He’s getting hard again just _thinking_ about it.

But he _can’t_. He can’t, because he… “Promised Sam.”

David frowns, the stroking at Michael’s hip stopping, much to Michael's displeasure. He digs into the reserves buried deep within him, supplied in part by the blood doing its best to raise his erection once more, and pushes up on his elbows, angling his body over David’s, so that he’s leaning above him.

He lifts an arm, bringing it around David’s chest, caging him in. His awoken cock brushing against David’s hip with the change in position.

Vampire constitution. It’s a hell of a thing.

He inhales a deep breath, pulling in the myriad scents all around him, David at the center of them all. The vampire’s frown turns a little confused, before slipping into something more neutral.

Michael lets a heated smile form on his own mouth, trying best he can to open the mental connection between them and letting David see what he’s imagining.

David’s expression morphs into something positively _delighted_.

“Besides, there are several _dozen_ things I can think of right now that I want more.”

David laughs. A hand raising up to slide into Michael’s hair. “Well now, better get started then, hmm?”

Michael’s answer of agreement is in the form of a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who were anticipating that other date night I've been talking about, that'll be in an upcoming chapter for sure. I decided some parts needed to be swapped, for reasons.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have yet another date night chapter, as promised! (Because these two deserve some bonding time outside of the cave.)
> 
> As a preface, I have THOUGHTS and OPINIONS regarding David and the boys, which I would - in summary - probably refer to as 'the secret lives of vampires.' Meaning that I think they had hobbies, and interests, and skills - outside of murdering people - that kept them entertained throughout the years. (Because eternity would get pretty boring otherwise.) I explore that a tiny bit in this chapter. 
> 
> In a similar vein, I explore some of Michael's family history as well. It's not a positive one. (Tags have been updated to reflect that, so please take a look there before proceeding.)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's been reading along (especially to all of you have been offering me support through comments and messages and the like!). It really means SO MUCH to me, I can not tell you.
> 
> Here's hoping you continue to enjoy!

* * *

In the wake of the scuffle with the surfers, Michael opts to lay low for a bit, avoiding the boards - and Sam - in exchange for time at the hotel with David.

And while he misses his family, it’s also not a hardship.

But, there’s only so much downtime in that dusty, drafty deathtrap - as cozy as the place may be - that either of them can take before cabin fever settles in, and the need to stretch their legs takes hold.

Often that means making the drive out of town to the bar, where Michael can practice the whole ‘reading people’s minds’ gig. He’s got a basic grasp on it now, but at best, he can only pull immediate surface thoughts from someone he’s holding eye contact with. The progress slow-going enough that he has a hard time fathoming that he’ll ever have the skills for it to be of any real use.

(He also practices his pool game. His success there is even more dismal, with him managing to stay so mediocre it’s impressive.) 

But when even that gets old, David takes Michael out on a strange backstage sort of tour of the town. Introducing him to hole in the wall venues and showing him the nooks and crannies of the place he calls home. 

He keeps his tales of what the boys and him would get up to in those crannies and nooks vague, but Michael can scent the dried, decaying blood in the cracks - can almost feel the vibrations in the air reflecting the events that took place, the lives that ended in them. It's not hard to fill in the blanks. 

They move on, hunger more than a light burden in Michael’s chest. When he meets David’s eyes as they mount their bikes, the smug shine in them tells him that was the vampire’s intent all along. 

They meander towards the boards, parking their bikes away from the populated center, near the back of the rides, opposite where most of the shops are. There are no events to speak of; the late summer crowds having thinned; the fall flocks small by comparison. It’s a little quieter. A little less tempting for Michael.

Maybe for David too, though Michael doesn’t ask.

They end up exploring down by one of the less used docks. There’s a dozen small sailboats nestled against the aging wood. Everyone of them so in need of tender loving care that Michael can smell rot setting in all around.

David pushes with his foot against the side of one of the boats, making it rock in place. He watches it for a moment, head tilted to the side, then moves onto the next one in line, and repeats the action. “Place was a port town, once upon a time. Serviced the coast up to San Francisco, and inland, towards Modesto.”

David lights a cigarette as he moves to the next boat. He extends the pack to Michael in offer, but Michael turns it down with a shake of his head. The pack slides back into David’s coat, but his gloved hands continue playing along the metal of his lighter, sparking a flame every few seconds while he rocks another boat.

“But the water’s too shallow for the larger barges, so bigger and better shipyards started up elsewhere, and the town had to make a turn. Sunk their money in hotels, motels. Rides. Games. Anything to bring the tourists in. Boardwalk took off, and Santa Carla finally got itself on the map.”

Michael molls the history lesson over, watching the waves roll in against the dock as David shakes the next boat in place. “This a personal account, or you just reiterating a travel brochure?”

David waggles his eyebrows as he inhales a pull of nicotine, but doesn’t answer. Just kicks another boat. 

Michael rolls his eyes. “You never get tired of playing the mystery game, do you?”

“No. Not really.” 

Michael laughs. “Come on, David. How many times do I have to ask?”

“Hmm. Don’t know.” The blond kicks yet another boat. “Try again, see how it goes.”

More amused than exasperated, as he once may have been, Michael does. “Fine. How long have you been in Santa Carla, _David_?”

David shrugs, a smile lurking on his lips around his cigarette. “A while. But maybe not as long as you’re thinking.”

Michael sighs. “There a reason you can’t give me a straight answer?”

David hops up onto the edge of the most recently kicked boat, giving him a boost several inches over Michael. “Yup.” His face breaks out in one of those smiles of his, the kind that lights up his face and makes him look as young as Michael actually _is_. 

There’s no good explanation for why Michael finds that smile as charming as he does. The damn thing is almost always accompanied by David being an ass. 

And yet, here Michael is... _charmed_. Feeling his body sway in the direction of the other man like he can’t help himself. Still, he’s not so enamored that he loses his train of thought. “And that reason would be…?” 

David uses the height advantage the boat gives him to blow a puff of smoke down at him. Michael inhales the smoke from the air, looking up at David, not in the slightest bit intimidated by the vampire’s attempt to _loom_ , and waits.

David leans down, face gone serious as he breaches the distance between them until they’re close enough to kiss. “Gotta pay your dues first, Michael.” He leans back, smile spreading across his lips again, and hops backwards off the edge of the boat, landing without a sound on its deck. He sucks one last puff off the cigarette then flicks the filter away into the ocean. “Now get on, I’m bored, and night’s still young.” 

Michael frowns, face crunching up in confusion. “Get on? Why?”

David gestures wide with both arms at the boat he’s standing on. “Midnight sail.”

Michael’s mouth drops open, he closes it with a snap, laughing at the vampire. “You...wanna steal a boat?”

David gives a full body shrug. “Just for the night. Won’t fit in the cave, so we can’t keep it.” He’s smiling again, wide and almost innocent. But Michael will be damned if he’s going to let that sway him.

“I’m not gonna steal a _boat_ , David.”

The smile fades. David’s countenance darkening as it drops. “Fine.” He keeps his unblinking gaze on Michael for long enough that it borders on unnerving. Eventually he claps his hands together, the sound of leather slapping against leather swallowed by the night. “We could go for a hunt instead. Show you another use for the ocean aside from sailing.”

David looks away, then back again. “Been a bit since I had a partner. More fun with one.” The words are said with a casual air, but there’s a weight behind them that Michael doesn’t miss. 

It’s another one of the vampire’s manipulative tactics, Michael knows. Which means it shouldn’t work, but guilt rises in Michael all the same. And he finds that he’s considering the option with more serious intent than he ever has before.

A vision of the throat of a nameless, faceless human pressed against Michael’s mouth fills his head. Hot, thick, _delicious_ blood flowing into him. David’s head bent to the other side of the shared meal’s neck, a current of life moving in a circuit Michael hadn’t known was incomplete before.

The image is so real, so clear, that he can smell the metallic undertones, feel the way the person shakes in their arms and then stills. Feeble body going lax in their tight grip.

When it hits the sand, the greasy-faced surfer from the pizza shop is staring dead-eyed up at Michael.

Michael draws in a hard breath of air, salt mingling with the taste of their imagined victim’s blood as he wills his body to calm down.

A minute passes with them just staring at one another - breathing in sync - before words are whispered in Michael’s mind. ‘ ** _Choose_** _,_ _Michael._ ’

The words are an echo of that first conversation they had in the hotel after... _everything_. It jars Michael into recognizing what it is he’s considering.

David gives him a wicked grin, like he knows _exactly_ what it is that Michael’s thinking. Which, in all likelihood, _he does_. His tongue darts out to trace the concealed fangs along his top row of teeth. Heat and hunger flash quick as a flame in Michael at the motion.

He smothers it, lifting his foot and stepping up onto the boat. “This thing ain’t gonna sink, is it? Don’t really wanna be shark bait.”

David chuckles. “You forget we can _fly_ , Michael?”

Michael‘s damn grateful that his circulation is too slow these days to allow him to blush, because he’s pretty sure he’d be red as a tomato at the moment if it _did_. “Shuddup.”

He steps around David, looking at the variety of ropes and pulleys, no clue how any of it works, feeling uncertain. “You know how to sail?”

David grins, the expression - for once - simple and absent of an ulterior motive so far as Michael can see. “I do.”

“Show me?” 

He does.

The wind is light enough that it takes them more than an hour to make it far enough off the coast for the lights of the city to fade to pinpricks. David does the bulk of the work, showing Michael what he’s doing, like he asked, but Michael doubts he’ll remember later.

Still, it’s fun in it’s own way. Weird, but fun.

Michael’s never been on a boat before, and while the rocking is a bit much at times, for the most part the ocean is calm. He can both feel and hear the waves lapping at the sides. The subtle rush of the undertow pulling at the water beneath them. There’s the vague sensation of little lives swimming along, all around. But it doesn’t call to his hunger, not the way all of the people in the city do. 

It’s more just...an awareness. That they exist. That despite how far removed David and him are from the shore, they aren’t really alone.

And when he looks for it, he finds his hunger is at rest. The always there clamoring quieted down to a murmur.

It’s the calmest Michael’s felt in longer than he can recall.

Since before they left Phoenix, for sure. 

But given what his family’s home life was like _in_ Phoenix, it may actually be the calmest he’s felt in _years_. 

Seeming satisfied with their progress, David locks the sail in place, and turns to Michael where he’s settled against the side of the boat. The blond fishes in his inner coat pocket, and retrieves a joint, holding it up to Michael in offer.

Michael looks at it, wary. “What’s in it?” 

David smirks. “I presume it’s pot.” He takes a whiff of it, drawing the slim roll of paper beneath his nose. “Definitely cut with something else though. Hard to say what.” He shrugs, sliding off his seat and moving to the center of the deck, settling at the center of the wooden boarding with crossed legs. “I got it from Paul’s stash. So could be anything.” His head tilts to the side as he looks at Michael. Without really intending to, Michael slips from his seat to join David on the deck, in a mirror of his position. “Why the concern? Don’t remember you asking when it was Paul that was offering.” 

“Yeah, well, that was before I’d _had_ any. I lost _hours_ those times. Hell, I can still only remember bits and pieces.” And based on what he _can_ remember, he thinks they may have been the kind of nights that shouldn’t be forgotten. 

If for no other reason then that was when he’d started down this whole immortal vampire schtick, and something like _that_ should be remembered.   

(The lost bits of time with David in the dark of the caverns is something else he’d like to get back, for an entirely _different_ reason.) 

David chuckles. “That wasn’t the _drugs_ , Michael.”

“Then what was it?” 

David licks his lips, looking away as he digs out his lighter. He looks at Michael as he lights the joint. The red flame reflecting off the blue of his irises, lighting them up until they’re almost amber.

It’s telling how attractive Michael finds the sight.

David takes a hit from the joint, holding the smoke in his mouth for long moments, before exhaling it towards Michael, and offering it to him. He takes it, sucking in the smoke on the air first before taking his own drag of the drug.

David smiles when he does, the gesture pleased. It’s only once Michael has passed the joint back to him that he receives an answer to his question. Stated plainly inside his skull. 

_‘Me.’_

Michael goggles at him. “ _You_?” 

David lays back on the deck, stretching his legs out their full span, and exhales a long stream of smoke towards the sky while Michael just stares at him, agitation cutting into his sense of calm.

“Well, my _blood_. For the most part. The first time you drink, it has a bit of a... _kick_. It gets to work right away. _Changing you_. Or at least _trying_ to.”

“What do you mean _‘trying’_?” 

“I mean not everyone’s cut out for being a vampire, Michael. Some...reject it. Right from the start. Vomit it all back up.” He takes another drag, handing it back to Michael who does the same. “Those that can handle it, well, the change isn’t always easy. Just getting you to the halfway point takes work. Can be painful. Mess with your head.”

The explanation is sound, Michael supposes, given that he’s becoming what is - essentially - a different species. (And hell, does he _not_ care to think of it in those terms.) But then there’s the other part of David’s statement to consider. “For the most part?” 

David laughs, turning his head to look at Michael with mirthful eyes. “Caught that, huh?” 

“Hard to miss.” 

“Importance of practice, Michael.”

“David-”

David's head swivels towards Michael, the intensity in his gaze locking Michael in place. “The first night, you drank an entire _bottle_ of my blood, Michael. Did you know that?” 

Michael nods. He _does_ know that, even if it’s taken a while to admit it to himself. He’s drank so much from David at this point, that it hardly matters, and yet it feels like it _does_.

“You went through even more the second night. And the third night-”

“The third night I drank from you. I remember.”

“It’s a lot of blood for the first time, Michael.” David breaks eye contact, staring up towards the sky instead. “It’s why the change was happening to you so quick. Why you were so hungry. Why I thought you were ready to know. To _join us_.” 

“What’s that got to do with you fucking around with my head?”

David is silent for a while. Long enough that Michael thinks maybe he won’t answer. But then he holds his hand for Michael to pass the joint back to him - which he does - and speaks. 

“Calculated risk. I thought - with how fast everything was going - you might freak. Either snap and kill yourself, or get yourself killed. Thought if I helped the blood do its thing, cleared some of the memories of what was happening to you, you’d be less likely to panic. Ease the transition.”

David sucks down on the joint until it’s nothing but ash, holding the smoke in his mouth for longer than a human would be able. Then releasing it out in concentric circles as he stares up into the cloudless night. “Joke’s on me though. Instead, you fought back so hard my whole family ended up dead.” 

The words hit Michael like a punch. David’s voice a monotone. Like he’s stating a simple fact without any emotion. But Michael knows that’s a lie. Can feel it in the very air around them. Can see it in the way David’s mouth pinches at the corners, in how he won’t meet Michael’s eyes. 

In how very still he’s gone. 

Michael turns his body and lays down on the deck so that their heads line up, but their legs are facing opposite directions. The deck is just long enough to allow them both space to stretch out, but narrow enough that if either of them were to shift, their shoulders would be touching.

“Any chance you brought more than one of those things with you?” Michael asks, keeping his focus on the sky overhead. 

David snorts. “No longer worried, Michael?”

“Nah. Can barely feel anything from just the one.” 

“Vampire constitution's a bitch like that.”

“I’ve noticed.” The edges of Michael’s lips eek upwards. “Good for some things though.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see David turn his head in his direction, looking at him. Michael stays as he is, letting him look his fill undisturbed.

At some point, David digs another joint out, and lights it. The position they’re lying in allowing them to easily pass it between the two of them. Which they do, for long, silent minutes, while looking up into the night.

It’s half gone - the drug mix (whatever it may be) plodding it's way in an easy course through Michael's veins, leaving him feeling lighter-limbed - when Michael chances speaking again. “Tell me something about one of them. One of the guys.”

The water continues to rock the boat, and the fish keep swimming circles deep below, but David doesn't answer. The continue to pass the the second joint between them until it's gone, and move onto a third. It's well on its way to destroyed when David responds. Voice so quiet, it might as well be a whisper. “Marko painted.”

Michael coughs around his most recent inhale. Sputtering the smoke out. David doesn’t laugh, just takes the joint and waits for Michael to get himself back under control. “Seriously?” Michael turns his head towards David, who nods.

“He’d get real obsessive about it sometimes too. Would disappear for months on end, deep in the caverns. Go all Van Gogh and shit. Whole back rooms of the hotel, caves, all of that, are covered in his stuff.” 

Michael can hardly imagine it. It just seems too unbelievable to be true. But then again, it’s not like he knew Marko all that well. Knew he was a little out there, with off-the-wall fashion sense and a soft spot for the birds that continue to infest the hotel even in his absence, but beyond that... “Sounds like something I’ve gotta see.”

David tilts his head towards Michael, wry smile on his face. “Before you go exploring, should warn ya that his subjects weren’t always for the faint of heart. Hell, sometimes his _paint_ wasn’t either.” 

Michael chokes a little as his brain supplies him with a list of potential alternatives to _paint_ a vampire might deem suitable, and the sort of subject matter that it might be used to capture, and finds his imagination to be quite thorough. “Shit. Really?” 

David shrugs, the motion brushing his shoulders up against Michael’s. “Not all of it. We knocked over more than a few stores getting real paint and supplies and all that crap. Think he enjoyed that almost as much as the end result. Always complained how expensive the stuff was to buy, not that we ever paid.” 

“Huh. He any good?”

David hums in the affirmative, but doesn’t elaborate. When the third joint is gone - Michael's head heavy, but relaxed for all their efforts - David speaks again. “Tit for tat, Michael.”

Michael blinks, confused. His mind working at a slower speed now. “How you mean?”

“I told you something about one of my brother’s, now it’s your turn.” 

“You...want to hear something about Sam?”

“Unless you’ve got another brother squirreled away somewhere I don’t know about.”

Michael smiles. “Nah. Least, not that I know of. Though, who knows, with the way my Dad was always off screwing anything that moves. Could have a dozen siblings running around I've never met.”

David lifts his brows at that, but doesn’t push.

Michael ponders the question, not sure what would be an appropriate item to divulge. “I don’t know. He collects comic books, but you already know that.” 

There’s a faint growl from David, but it sounds more agreeing than angry. Michael can feel its vibrations through the deck. He shifts his body a little, enjoying the sensation. 

“He’s into movies - doesn’t like horror all that much.” David snorts, and Michael chuckles, able to appreciate the irony there. “But anything else goes. He’s smart. Grades always beat the hell out of mine.” Michael smiles into the night, thinking about his brother. 

Thinking about how even when he was a pest, he was still always Michael’s closest friend. How even when Michael had gotten older and started branching out, making friends and dating and just trying to find his own way outside of his family, there was no one that Michael trusted more.

“He’s a good kid. Solid. Might not always seem like it, but he is. Was just the two of us a lot when we were kids. My Mom had to jump from job to job to make ends meet, took up most of her time, and my father...well, we’d have been better off if we’d left him sooner. Sam and I...we looked out for each other.” 

“No love loss between you and the old man.” It’s said as a statement, not a question, but Michael’s mouth opens to answer it all the same. Tongue loosened from the drugs or the calm or both.

“My Dad was - _is_ , I guess, assuming the bastard hasn’t up and died since I last saw him - a far cry from father of the year. He’d disappear for days, _weeks_ , at a time. We’d never know if he was just off screwing around on our Mom, or if he was dead drunk in a ditch somewhere.” Michael shifts in place again, letting hs shoulders brush against David’s with the motion, and continues.

“Always turned out to be the former, unfortunately. He’d stumble back home. Pretend like he was the perfect husband, perfect father. For a day or two. ‘Til something would set him off.” Michael reaches up to scrub at his scalp through his hair, remembering how much he'd grown to hate the man before they'd left, for all that he’d spent his younger years trying to get a lick of his affection. “Fuck, man, just about _anything_ could set him off. The shit he’d say to us. The things he’d call my Mom...” Michael trails off, old anger and frustration seeping through his drug-addled frame. 

“He hit her?” It’s phrased like a question, but something in the lilt of it tells Michael that David already knows the answer.

Michael nods, recalling the times his mother would limp down the stairs, claiming she’d slept wrong. Recalls the long sleeves she’d wear sometimes, even in the summer. “Yeah.” 

“He hit you?”

Michael shrugs, shoulders brushing David’s again, feeling no need to voice a response. Thinking about being ten, out on his new (third-hand) bicycle, hitting a pothole, and wrapping it around a lamppost. An accident bad enough that he’d been lucky to walk away with only superficial cuts and bruises. 

He hadn’t walked away from his father so lucky.

His Mom had fussed over him like a baby when his Dad and him had finally made it home, and Michael - frightened of what would happen to him if he didn’t do as his father had said - told her the black eye and bruised ribs were from the accident, and not from after he’d been picked up. 

It didn’t happen all that often - his father gone more than he wasn’t, and - Michael guesses, with the pseudo-wisdom that time and distance provides - more often directing his anger towards his Mom instead. But it wasn’t the only time either.

Though, as Michael had shot up in height, and started packing on the muscle. Lifting, and playing sports, and learning how to throw a punch, it had all slowed down to a trickle. Until the first time Michael had caught one of his father’s thrown fists.

It had been aimed at Sam at the time.

Their mother had walked through the front door mere seconds before. 

His father had done one of his disappearing acts after that, and three months later, they’d arrived in Santa Carla. 

“Your brother?”

Michael shakes his head. “He’d try, but...” 

“You’d piss him off. Distract him, so he’d lay off Sam?” 

“Yeah.” 

Silence filters in, the push of the waves against the boat a steady background. “Never been to Phoenix. Could be a fun road trip. Pay your old man a visit. If you want.”

Michael doesn’t answer. Has no idea what to say to that. He’s spent so much time forcing his gut response to ‘do you wanna go kill someone’ to be _no_ , that when David makes the offer this time, he’s struck by the fact that some part of him has always known the answer to this particular question would be _yes_. Human, half-vampire, or otherwise.

He can’t think of a single reason _why_ he should say no. His father’s a waste of flesh that’s never done anything worthwhile in his miserable life. And seeing as how - _at some point_ \- Michael knows he _is_ going to have to kill someone, he can think of few other options that would feel like he'd also be doing the world a favor and not just himself.

But he also knows that ‘no’ is what he’s _supposed_ to say. Can hear it in Sam's voice at the back of his skull. So instead of answering one way or another, he changes the subject. 

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You were human at some point. And I mean, Max uhh, _made you_ , but he wasn’t your _father_.” Michael pauses, the concept of his mother’s dead ex-boyfriend being related to David, in any fashion, a little disconcerting. “Right?” 

David snorts. “Fuck no.”

“So, who was?”

“No idea.” 

Michael twists his head to the side, so that he can look at David’s upside down profile. He has a few moments to take in the slope of his nose, the sweep of his cheek, covered with the perpetual stubble Michael knows he actually takes the time to groom. The purse of lips that manage to be softer to the touch than they look, before David angles his head to the side and meets Michael’s gaze. Their faces a hairsbreadth from each other.

“You don’t know who your father was?”

David rocks his head against the deck in a sideways ‘no’ gesture, then turns back up to the star riddled sky. “Mother was a whore. Father was one of the horde that paid to fuck her. Bastard could have lived next door, and I wouldn’t have known it was him.”

Well, _shit_ , Michael thinks. Uncertain what to do with that information. “Oh. Um, what about-”

“My mother? Died when I was eight, maybe nine? Hard to remember to be honest. Been a while.” The statement is matter of fact, absent of even the tiny cues of emotion that Michael can pick up when David mentions his vampire family. He wonders if that means he doesn't care at all, or if he's just got more practice at hiding it. “Was on my own after that. Hell, was on my own _before_ that. Stayed that way until I met Max.”   

David shifts on the deck as he digs in his coat for a cigarette, shoulder grazing Michael’s as he lights it. “He wasn’t so off his rocker when we met. Least, didn’t seem like he was. A little twitchy. Indulgent, in some ways. Right bastard in others.”

Michael doesn’t want to push his luck, already having gotten more out of David about his past in one sitting than he has in _months_ of poking and prodding, but can’t stop himself. The atmosphere of the night demanding it. “What about-”

“The boys?” David glances at Michael, eyes cool, but open. The defensive block that typically rises when they’re mentioned absent. Taking that as a good sign, Michael nods. 

David doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns his head back upward, raising the cigarette to his lips once again, inhaling and exhaling a long stream of smoke. “Dwayne came along a bit later. Then Marko. Paul.”

He doesn’t offer up anything beyond that, and Michael chooses not to ask. Not wanting to chance ruining the night on too much deep conversation. So he deflects. “You guys often steal boats?”

David chuckles. “Sure. Beach town, Michael. What sort of menace to society would we be if we _didn’t_ steal the occasional boat?”

Michael turns back back to the blond. “How is _this_ menacing?”

David looks at Michael, the corners of his mouth tipped upward. “This? Not so much. But the boys and I? We could steal a lot of boats in one night. Leave a dozen or so ships a few miles off the coast right before a storm. Then watch as the humans would scurry around in a panic. Forced to choose between braving the weather to get ‘em back, and letting ‘em sink. Fun scene for us, no matter their choice.”

Michael snorts. “I take it we’re not sailing this thing back to shore?”

“ _Hell no_ , Michael. Where would be the fun in that?”

Michael takes the cigarette when David offers, and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I debated posting this chapter tbh, as it feels a little self-indulgent as I just wanted to explore these two hanging out together some more, but then I remembered, THIS IS FANFIC, so THAT'S OKAY. Right?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First up, I'd like to give a HUGE round of thanks/kudos to [missroserose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/pseuds/missroserose) for beta reading this chapter. It is light years better thanks to her. You rock!
> 
> Second, I'd like to thank everyone who commented on the last chapter. I was nervous about it, and your support REALLY helped!! *HUGS*
> 
> Now onto the chapter. As always, hope you enjoy!

* * *

David is no stranger to stalking humans.

He’s a vampire. _A hunter_. Tracking - _cornering_ \- prey comes with the territory.  

The activity - both a pastime and a necessity - is one he has revelled in for decades. Savoring that first moment when a target would cross his path - marking them by scent and sight - almost as much as the final gush of their blood on his tongue.

Whether it’s a week long hunt, slowly breaking the spirit of his prey before _breaking his prey,_ or a quick, down and dirty kill with the rush of their fear-spiked blood quenching his thirst in a hasty minute, there’s enjoyment aplenty to be found when it’s done right. And even when it’s _not_ \- when the prey is weak, or drugged, or thankful for their own death - it at least ends with his hunger sated, and a reminder of where he stands in the scheme of things.

At the top of the heap.

One thing he never thought he’d feel while engaging in the activity though, is _bitter_. Doing it not as a means to an eventual meal, or because he’s just damn _good_ at it, and takes pleasure in a job done well, but because _he can’t seem to help himself._

And yet, here he is. Watching - _stalking_ \- his lover from the shadows as the half-vampire putters around the boardwalk with his _mother_ and his _brother_. The lot of them smiling. _Laughing_. Getting _pizza_. _Shopping_.

Just all around having a _blast_ by the looks of it.

But David’s sure as hell not. Instead he finds his emotional state vacillating between annoyed to bored to _fucking wistful_ to just plain old-fashioned depressed when Michael fails to notice that he’s near.

David’s been a vampire for more than eighty years, and he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing anymore.

Because _this_? This feeling like he _needs_ to be around Michael? As if the thread connecting them will snap if the boy’s gone for too long or goes too far away?  

It’s unsettling. Confusing. Frustrating. 

_Unacceptable._

Worst of all, the more nights that pass, the more time they spend together - whether their bodies are pressed skin to skin or they’re astride their bikes out riding, exploring, drinking… _talking?_   

The worse it seems to get. So that every time Michael drags his arms through the sleeves of his coat, and says ‘ _see ya_ ’ David hates it a little bit more.  

He can almost hear the boys laughing at him over it. Ribbing him for his obsession with the teenager.

But the boys are dust, and won’t be laughing about anything ever again.

He wonders if _this_ is just what happens when you make a new vampire. If that’s the source of this strange compulsion to be near Michael. In which case, _how the fuck_ did Max manage it?

Because he sure has shit never lived out of David’s or the boys pockets’ the way that David wants to do with Michael.

Maybe he should have asked him at some point. But Max...didn’t like to _share_. The opposite of, in fact. And David was taught - in _excruciating_ detail - that it was best to keep questions to himself.  

Still. He regrets not asking now - consequences be damned - because he _detests_ not knowing.

Whatever the cause, he figures it’ll self-correct once Michael finally makes his first kill, and leaves his human family behind. 

 _It has to_.

Not that he seems all that inclined to such an action at the moment, ruffling his brother’s hair and getting scolded by his freaking _mother_ for it the way that he is.

David’s eyes trail the three as they pause at one of the little pop-up kiosks between stores. The lines of Michael’s body go tense the moment his mother’s and brother’s attention is diverted away from him and onto some worthless knick-knack piece of crap. His spine straightening, and eyes more alert than before as he scans the trickling stream of passersby.

David leans forward, examining the way that Michael’s nostrils flare when a buxom redhead strolls past, giggling arm and arm with a pretty blonde. Michael’s head turns as the duo pass him, the lamp overhead illuminating him like an overexposed photo.

David catches a hint of teeth in the light, sharpened points on display before Michael manages to clamp his lips shut over them. A quick glance down confirms that Michael’s hands are clenched into fists, concealing his nails. And even across the distance between them, David can hear how the lethargic heart in the boy’s chest speeds up as he tracks the pair down the boards. The urge to dip into Michael’s head to see what he’s thinking - what he’s _imagining_ \- rises, but David dismisses it.  

He doesn’t need to read Michael’s mind to know what it is the boy wants.

The entire display of poorly disguised hunger disappears - quick as a flash - when Lucy turns back to Michael, asking him a question. The predator eyeing his next meal replaced with the countenance of an average teenager out enjoying time with his family, shitty posture and all.

David smiles. The boy’s closer to breaking than David had realized. Maybe it’s time he amps up the pressure. Solve both their problems in one go. 

Have him fully by David’s side, where he belongs; his human family an afterthought. 

And David’s world back in a place where things _make sense_.  

David stubs out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe, enjoying the burnt stench it makes against the rubber sole, and tears his gaze away from the happy go-lucky trio as they wander into another store - this one’s already putting out their Christmas decorations, even while the ghost of Halloween is still shining bright at the shop next to it - and aims his gaze into the crowd milling down by the stage. 

Plenty of out-of-towners in for the show.

He’ll feel better once he grabs a bite to eat.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

“Michael, what do you think about this one, honey?” 

Michael swivels his head towards his mother at the question, careful to drop his eyes while he gets his hunger - and his shifting inhuman features - under control. When he’s ready, he blinks at the strange little bobble-head figure she’s holding on display in her hands. The thing a cross between a garden gnome and Davy Crockett. “Uhh, who for?” 

She giggles, eyes dancing. “For your grandfather.”

Michael tilts his head, trying to see _why_ she thinks it may be a good gift for the old man, but he’s got nothing aside from it being as weird as he is. He shrugs. “Uhh, sure. It’s...great?” 

His Mom snorts out another laugh. “Oh, _Michael_.” She rolls her eyes and turns back to the cashier. Her eyes off him again, Michael glances back down the boards, seeking but not finding the pair of girls that had grabbed his attention. The two long gone, which is...a good thing? He thinks.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. A breath hauled in through his nose carrying a scent that brings David to the front of his mind. He scans the area, seeking out the blond. A strange feeling of disappointment settling in his stomach when he doesn’t spot him.

He frowns at himself. What the hell would it matter if David _was_ nearby? What would Michael do, invite him to come _hang out_ with them for the rest of their family night? 

 _Yeah. Right._  

He flicks his eyes back to his mother and brother, only to find that Sam is watching him, a sour look on his face. “Everything okay, Mike?”

Michael clears his throat, ducking his head in a quick nod of assent. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” 

Sam gestures to his face. “You, uh, you got that _look_. Like...chicken nuggets?”

Michael grimaces. He thought he was better at hiding it than that now. Or, maybe he is, and Sam just knows him too damn well. “Sorry.”

Sam shakes his head, a half-smile twisting his lips upward. “It’s okay, Bro. Just keep your teeth to yourself, and it’s all good, yeah?”

“Yeah. Course.” Michael agrees, but doesn’t feel that good about his chances. The bouts of hunger are easier to handle these days, but also harder to anticipate. Cracks starting to form in his walls at the oddest of times.

Though - at the very least - it seems to only happen in direct response to people he doesn’t _know_. Which is...better than the alternative, he guesses.

Shaking the thoughts off, Michael follows his mother and brother into the next store, glancing over his shoulder, seeking a pair of eyes in the dark that aren’t there, but that he wishes _were_.

And hating himself a little for it. Worried at how often the blond is on his mind. And _why_.

He has no idea what the store is even selling - stuck in his own thoughts as he is - but soon enough, Sam and their mother make their purchases and they continue on. Sam leading out front with Michael and their mom bringing up the rear. 

A few seconds into the walk their mother loops her arm through Michael’s, tugging him close to her side as they stroll. “This is nice. I missed this.” 

Michael smiles down at her, holding her arm close in his. “Me too.”

He means it too. He recalls a few years ago, when he would have balked at the open sign of affection. The simple fear of a teenage boy scared for the world to know he even _has_ a mother, let alone that he _loves_ her.

Recalls a few short months ago when he physically wouldn’t have been able to _handle_ her being so close without fear that his hunger would turn things ugly. An entirely different and altogether more sensible fear for all that _hurting_ _his mother_ is one of the last things he ever wants to do.

Michael never thought life could be so strange, or complicated.

“Thank you.”

Confused at the whispered offer of gratitude, Michael glances down at her. “For what?” The last thing she should be is _thankful_ to him. _For anything_. Not when he’s been the cause of so much grief since they came to Santa Carla. A move made _specifically_ to _get away_ from the ever-present trauma of their father. And one that Michael has managed to fuck up royally.  

She sighs, looking forward as they meander along. “For just...letting me have this. I know that...well, I know things haven’t been easy for you, even if I don’t really _know_ , you know? But, I appreciate you coming home sometimes - I miss you when you’re gone - and just...letting us be a family still.”

Michael gulps, glancing out and away when his mom looks at him. Focusing instead on Sam’s back a dozen steps ahead where he’s chatting with someone at a clothing shop. “Mom...I don’t mean to - you and Sam, Grandpa too - you’re always gonna be my family. You know that. Right? No matter what. I promise.”

“Oh, Michael. Don’t-” She cuts herself off. Michael tries - and fails - not to listen to the way her pulse speeds up, then slows back to normal. He doesn’t mean to slip inside her head, but as he meets her eyes it happens anyway. _‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’_

His heart breaks a little at the unspoken words. He opens and closes his mouth, wanting to put her fears to rest, but finds that he can’t. 

Not when he’s too worried she might be right to have them.

He squeezes her arm, earning a watery smile in return. “So...have you heard back from city services about the job?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. Said I should check back in a day or two. Figure I’ll swing by tomorrow after sunset, see if I can annoy them into saying yes.”

His mother laughs, the sound not as carefree as it should be. 

He coughs, desperate to redirect the conversation off of himself. “How ‘bout you. How’s work?”

His mother rolls her eyes, but proceeds to tell him all about the latest and not so greatest goings on at the video store.

He still wants her out of there, but her thoughts - when he not-so-accidentally invades them again - are a little lighter, a little brighter than before. 

It’s a tiny victory, but he’ll take every one that he can get.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Four days later, and Michael can’t stop thinking about the conversation with his mother on the boards.

He just...can’t get it out of his head. Dwelling on it through the long nights he spends alone in his room at his grandfather’s house, and now it’s infiltrating his time at the hotel as well.

A place where he has been doing his best to keep his family at the back of his mind. Wanting - needing - a bit of separation between the two disparate halves of his life.

Something that’s getting more difficult to do - for a lot of reasons - the more time that goes by.

He feels like he’s barrelling towards an endpoint a lot faster than he’d planned. A lot faster than he’d _hoped_. Not wanting to disappoint his family. Not wanting to lose them.

But no longer sure he’s got a choice in the matter.

Not wanting to dwell on what is or isn’t inevitable, he shoves thoughts of the conversation with his mother - and her justified worries - away and decides now’s as good a time as any to let David know the news. 

“I found a job.”

They’re lounging on the ancient, and yet surprisingly comfortable, couch in the main room of the hotel when Michael says it. 

David’s sitting at one end. A well-read book his distraction of choice for the evening, one that Michael’s seen him with more than a few times, though he has no idea what it is or what it may be about. Meanwhile, Michael is spread out along the rest of the sofa, his legs dangling over the one arm, head laying on the cushion nearest to David. Close but not quite touching - a magazine in hand.

“Say again?”

Michael flips through the mag, looking for something of even the remotest interest. “I said I found a job.”

“Thought that’s what you said.” David’s voice is onenote in that manner that Michael knows by now either means he doesn’t give a shit, or he really, _really_ does. “Didn’t know you were looking.”

Michael leans his head back to glance up at the vampire, surprised. “Yeah. Started again when I withdrew from school. Thought you knew that?”

“No. You never mentioned.”

Michael blinks, confused. “Well, _no_ , but…” He lifts a hand towards his temple and taps at it.

David’s eyes shift away from his book towards Michael, then slide back to the page just as easy. “I don’t dig around in there for every errant thought, Michael. You know that.”

Michael frowns. He’s gotten so used to David always seeming to know his thoughts at the same time as he has them that he just sort of figured he did _exactly_ that. Especially with how the vampire sees boundaries more as an annoyance than a deterrent.

“So...what’s the job?” David turns the page of his book, keeping his focuses away from Michael, so Michael angles his head back to his magazine, pretending to do the same.

“Nothing great. Just late night clean up at the boards for the holiday season. Not like I have a lot of qualifications. And not being able to work during daylight is more of a problem than I thought it would be.” Michael shrugs, but the movement is swallowed by the couch. “But it’ll be steady pay for a couple of months. And the boss said that if I’m not a total fuck up they may keep me on full-time into the new year. Hell, even suggested that if I stick it out, and bother getting my GED, I could maybe get a bump to security or something down the road.” Michael chuckles. Finding the concept of being _security_ pretty damn hilarious, given what he is. “Pretty sure he doesn’t think I’ll last that long. They went on and on about safety concerns, too. You’d have laughed your ass off.” Michael grins up at David at the memory.  

David doesn’t laugh, just wrinkles his nose. “Why the _hell_ would you want to do any of that?”

Michael’s smile falls away as he stares backwards up at David. The answer obvious enough to him that he doesn’t think it needs saying. “Need a job.” 

“For what?” There’s a low-level growl in David’s voice, irritation bleeding through loud and clear in the short question.

The feedback loop of David’s irritation fuels Michael’s frustration. He twists in place enough to make sure that David can see just how dense he thinks he is at the moment. “To make money, David.” 

David gives up any pretense of reading, the book dropping closed in his lap. “Why do you need money?” 

Michael stares at David, surprised to find that the vampire looks...confused. “You serious?”

“Yes.” There is that irritation again, wiping away the confusion with a well-placed scowl.

“ _To pay for things_.” Michael enunciates each word. Nice and slow. Making it as clear as he can how idiotic he thinks the question is.

He expects David to get pissed off at the patronizing attitude, like he usually does. But instead he’s making a face at Michael’s response like he’s sucking on a lemon. “You want something? Say the word. We can make a night of it. Haven’t been on a shopping spree in a while. Boys and I used to go all the time. Fun enough way to spend a evening.”

Michael chuckles at the way David’s expression turns hopeful, like a kid asking for an extra dessert. “Thanks?” Michael blinks away the feeling of whiplash he’s getting from David’s roller coaster of emotional responses, trying to keep his own feelings as even as he can. “But it’s more for the less tangible stuff.”

At David’s arched brows, Michael continues. “Like water, electricity for my Grandpa’s house? Food too. The old bastard could probably survive on root beer and Oreos in a dark house so long as he has his TV Guide and a damn working toilet, but the rest of us can’t.” David is silent, so Michael continues. “Four people, it adds up. And I know Sam misses having cable.” 

“There’s no TV in that house, Michael. What the hell you going to connect cable to? A watch?” David tweaks at Michael’s earring. Michael swats him away, but he just comes back, like a damn cat, playing with the dangling metal.

“Yeah, we’d have to get one of those first, but the monthly service is the real bitch. My Mom’s been doing her best, but she shouldn’t have to do it all her own. Not when I can help.” Michael drops the magazine to the floor. “Besides, I want her out of that damn video store. The assistant manager, Maria? She’s pissy all the time these days, and my Mom doesn’t deserve that shit. She’s got enough to worry about.”

David snorts. “Maria’s pissy because she was wrapped around Max’s finger. Knew what he was, and damn certain she was expecting an invite at some point. Now he’s gone, so’s her free ride into immortality.”

Michael blinks up at the blond. That was not a statement he’d been in any way expecting. “Shit.” 

“Yeah.”

“Think she knows who’s responsible?” 

David shakes his head. “Doubtful. But if she’s becoming a problem, we can deal with it. Don’t like hunting locals, but better that than letting someone who knows too much start making noise.” David makes a humming sound, getting that look that Michael’s starting to associate with thoughts of a meal - _of a hunt_. Eyes bright, and skin a warmer shade of pale. “Could even do it tonight, if you’re up to it. I know where she lives.”

One of David’s fingers traces the shell of Michael’s ear up from the piercing, and then back down and around along his neck. Looping back and forth, over and over again. It makes Michael feel an awful lot like he’s some kind of pet, but it also feels damn good, so he’s not inclined to make him stop. David’s voice when he speaks is as enthralling as the motions are. “She’d make a nice first meal for you, Michael. She’d struggle, but she’d also remember how _good_ it felt when Max fed from her, so she’d _want it_ too. Would give the flavor a nice _kick_.”

The hunger that never quite fades in Michael simmers at the offer, sending a wash of adrenaline and need out from his core through his limbs. He curls the fingers of one hand inward, digging blunt nails into his palm, and releases a long breath. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“One day you’re not going to be able to swallow down your own bullshit anymore.” 

Michael heaves a breath of air out on a sigh. He’s right, of course. They both know it. But, Michael’s not quite at the point of giving in. Not yet. “Maybe. But not today.”

“Pity.” The tracing of his ear continues. “Now why is it you think getting a _job_ is the way to solve your mother’s money problems?”

“You got a better idea?”

The fingers of David’s hand stroke lower, along Michael’s neck. Michael grits his teeth, but doesn’t tell him to _stop._ The contact sending little sparks of pleasure through his skin - telling him to _enjoy it_ \- even while it’s pissing him off, making him feel he’s being toyed with. “If having too many people living in the house is causing an issue, cut the cord. Pack up the rest of your stuff and bring it here. One less person for them to worry about.”

“I’m not moving in here full time, David.” 

The stroking stops, but David’s fingers stay touching Michael’s skin, right at his pulsepoint. “Why the hell not?”

Michael rolls his eyes, the answer to that question damn obvious far as he’s concerned. “I don’t know. How about the fact that it’s a fucking cave? With no electricity or running water.”

David makes a humming sound in his throat, the corner of his mouth lifting up in a smug grin. “Hasn’t seemed to stop you from spending half your days and nights here so far.”

“Because I can go _home_ and shower and enjoy the fact that I don’t live in the dark ages.”  

David’s brows furrow as he looks at him. “I _shower_ , Michael. Trust me, there’s other options than living with your _mother_ if that’s what you’re worried about.” David begins tapping his fingers against Michael’s neck in a slow but steady beat. “As for electricity...well, what do you need it for _really_? No TV in either place, and the radio here works just as well as anywhere else on batteries. Plus you can play it loud as you want.” The tapping continues. It doesn’t take long for Michael to realize that it’s in time with his own sluggish heartbeat. The reminder of how much he’s changed sending chills up his spine. “What more do you need, Michael?”

Michael clenches his jaw. “Fine. Then how about the fact that all it’s gonna take is one more nice rattle to send this whole place pitching into the ocean?”

“It’s held this long, it’ll hold a while longer. Besides, if a quake comes, we’ll know early enough to get clear.”

“And if it’s the middle of the day?”

“Point.” David gives a slight nod, managing from his angle over Michael to look like he’s doing him a favor by agreeing. “ _But_ , if you’d deign to sleep back at the roost instead of the bed, we’d be safe enough if that happened. Plenty of support in case of a quake.”

Michael scrunches his face at the suggestion, shaking his head. “I’m not sleeping hanging upside down like a damn bat, David.” Because, seriously? If his choices are a warm, comfortable bed or sleeping like an animal in a dank cavern, it’s not a choice. _At all._ And - frankly - he’s confused as to why _David_ would pick the latter. “I mean, what the fuck is the point?”  

David’s voice sounds calm, but the syllables are drawn out long and low in a way that suggests he’s feeling anything _but_. “You should try it before you knock it, Michael. Might find you sleep better if you did.”

Indignation mixes with irritation at David’s insinuation. “I sleep just fine.”

David sucks on his teeth, pressing his tongue to the back of them. “You’re an awful fucking liar, you know that?” He taps once, _hard_ , against Michael’s neck. _‘How were those dreams of yours this morning, Michael?’_

Michael swallows down a wave of nausea. He doesn’t always remember his dreams, but usually these days when he _does_ they're unpleasant, and can be traced to his not having fed in awhile. More often than not, it’s how he knows it’s time to take his leave of his family and seek out the vampire. 

But not this time. This time he’d been well fed, sated, laying within arm’s reach of David in the canopied bed when his dreams had taken a turn for the macabre—

_—Sam’s broken body stretched out at Michael’s feet, dead eyes staring up into nothing, his blood dripping down Michael’s chin. Flesh torn from bone, flayed open from neck to navel._

_Michael_ **_laughing_ ** _as he licked the blood from his fingers—_

Michael didn’t tell David about it. Which means he was either projecting it without realizing, or - for all his claims to the contrary - David _does_ go digging around Michael’s brain whenever he pleases.  

“But maybe the dreams don’t bother you. Who am I to judge?” The tapping pauses, David’s fingers gone still against Michael’s skin. “But you’re clinging to your _grace period_ like a life preserver, Michael. It has to end sometime. And when it does, sleeping where the sun’s just a drawn curtain away will be a death sentence.”

“You think I don’t know that? With the fuckin’ headache it gives me now?” 

“A headache isn't burning flesh, Michael. _Trust me_. It does more than sting.” 

The smell of sizzling meat infiltrates Michael’s thoughts. The visceral feeling of excruciating pain as his hand catches flame making him recoil. For the most part he’s learned to tell the difference between his own thoughts and David’s over the last few months, but it doesn’t make living through the other man’s memories any easier. 

He shakes his hand out, flexing his fingers in and out, just to reassure himself that he’s still intact. “Doesn’t mean you can’t sleep in a _bed_. Not like the one here’s seen a sunbeam in a decade. Safe enough.”

There’s a long pause before David answers, his voice soft - deliberate. “Safe from the sun. But not from nosy assholes exploring where they shouldn’t. Or from those earthquakes you’re scared of. Better, _safer_ , back in the roost.”

“Yeah, right. Safer.” Michael grumbles. Tired of the conversation, of the phantom pain in his still-throbbing hand, of the nauseating taste his imagination has conjured up of his brother’s blood in his mouth, of the feeling that he’s being backed into a corner. The last thing Michael fucking needs is David pressuring him to put further distance between himself and the family he already feels like he’s losing. 

Determined to drop the topic before the corrosive feelings building inside him eat through his chest, he picks his magazine back up. As he flips through the pages, a stray thought Michael has no intention of _having_ let alone _voicing_ runs through his head without his permission: ‘ _Place is so damn safe, but it couldn’t keep the Frogs out. Couldn’t keep Marko alive.’_

A heartbeat later, David flicks his fingers - nails extended halfway to claws - at the sensitive skin behind the lobe of Michael’s ear. The scratch draws a deep swell of blood. Michael yelps, slapping David’s hand away, and sits up on the couch, glaring at the other man. “What the fuck?!”

The expression on David’s face is murderous, jaw clenched tight. “Because of **you** , Michael! The only people that knew about the place before you went and blabbed were family or food!”

“Yeah, well, whose fault was it that I felt the need to bring them here in the first place, **_David_**!? If you hadn’t been so fucking _set_ on your murderous creature of the night _bullshit_ and just _talked_ to me, maybe I wouldn’t have fought so damn hard and they’d still be alive!” Michael spits the accusation at David, cruel in a way he didn’t used to think he was capable.  

David leans forward deep into Michael’s space, features shifting - his eyes shining amber and teeth descending. “You want to say that again?”

Michael knows he should bend. _Apologize_. That his life would be easier if he did. But he _can’t_. “You heard me.” 

David’s jaw ticks back and forth, the amber in his eyes receding. “You’re a real peach tonight. Hungry, Michael? Need to bite something? If Maria’s not to your taste, there’s another concert at the boards. Be easy pickings. Could swing by, have a decent meal. Bet you’d be in a better mood after.” 

“Like I said. I’m good.” Michael bites the words out through clenched teeth, the hot rush of anger refusing to dissipate, fed along by the trickle of blood still seeping from the wound on his neck. 

“Oh, I heard you. But since every word out of your mouth tonight is complete bullshit, figured I’d ask again. Give you a chance to try the truth out for a change.”

“Fuck you, David.” No longer willing to engage, Michael rises from the couch. No real destination in mind, just needing to put distance between them. 

He doesn’t get far. David standing so quick that he seems to materialize in Michael’s space, even though that’s not one of the hidden powers David possesses.

At least, Michael doesn’t think it is.

“I’ve been pretty damn patient with you these last few months, Michael. With your _grace period_. Offering my blood on tap. Keeping you well-fed so you don’t go feral and eat dear ol’ Sam and Lucy.” David’s voice is smooth, venomous. “How long do you think you’d last, if I cut you off?”  

The question slithers out of the vampire on an unconcerned slip of air, but it stabs Michael in the chest like a knife. Fear flavors the anger coursing through him. “We have a _deal_ , David.”

“It can’t last forever. At _some point_ , you have to cross the line _._ ”

Michael growls. “You think this _hissy_ fit you’re throwing over wanting to help my family is gonna convince me to do that?”

David’s eyes flash amber again, outrage coloring his face. “They’re not your family anymore, Michael!”

“Like hell they’re not!” Michael bellows, his own features shifting to match the vampire staring him down. “Drinking your blood doesn’t change that.”

David tilts his head towards Michael; sibilant voice laced with malicious intent. “Oh, but it _does_. You think they’re going to stay by you when you become what you’re _meant to be_ , Michael? You think you'll be able to waltz through their door fresh from a kill, and they won’t piss themselves in fear?”

Michael flinches away like he’s been slapped, heaving long draws of air into his lungs, trying - and failing - to send his vampiric features away. “Maybe not, but they’ll still be my family, David. Or can’t you understand that because you’ve never had one?”

He doesn’t mean it. He _doesn’t._ He _knows_ what the boys meant to David, seen the way that he shuts down when he thinks about them. When he remembers that they’re gone.

But Michael says it anyway. Aiming to _hurt_. _Wanting to_. Too angry, too frustrated, too _afraid_ to see straight. He doesn't know where it’s all coming from - doesn’t even feel like all of it is _his_ \- but it’s poisoning him.

David slinks a step closer to Michael, menace radiating from his frame. “You know, Michael. One of the benefits of your not being human anymore is that if I tear open your jugular and let you bleed out onto the floor you’ll _heal_. The con to your still being _half_ is that it’ll take a damn long time.” The blond circles his hand - tight - around Michael’s wrist. The squeeze hard enough that Michael can feel the way the tendons and muscles compress against bone. “You want to find out how long?”

The threat hangs heavy in the air between them, Michael’s uneven breathing the only break in the stillness as David’s vengeful gaze digs deep into Michael’s head. _‘I_ _had a family,_ _Michael_ , _and yours_ ** _killed them_** _!’_

Michael’s blood boils. “So what, they were your _brothers_ , but Sam’s not _mine_ anymore, David? Huh? **Fuck.** ** _That._** Being a bunch of unlucky bastards in the wrong place at the wrong time drinking some asshole’s blood doesn’t make you _family_.”

“Maybe not.” David’s grip on Michael’s wrist turns rougher, the vampire using it to pull Michael further into his space, his voice a deep, steady thrum of constrained rage. “But the _decades_ we spent living together? Taking care of one another? _Protecting each other_? Sure as shit _did_. What the fuck difference does it make whose _sac_ you come out of? Blood of the covenant is **_thicker_** , Michael.”

The statement strikes a chord in Michael, but the fact that with it David’s implying that Sam matters _less_ just makes it _worse_ , not better. Still, it’s enough to keep him from barking out a nasty retort in immediate response.  

David seizes on the opening, amber eyes searching across Michael’s face, lips pulling back to expose his fangs. “ _That’s_ why we were family, Michael. And _that’s_ what I’ve been offering you, night after night. And what you’ve been _saying yes to_ every time you’ve fed from me.”

David twists his hold on Michael’s wrist, sending burning threads of pain up the appendage. It stokes the flame of fury inside Michael ever higher. “Now you’re getting a _job_? To pay _bills?_ Playing at being _human?”_ Claws prick at Michael’s wrist. Lukewarm blood seeping around the tips and dripping down between his fingers. _“_ We’re not human, Michael! The same rules don’t apply. The sooner you accept that, the better.”

Michael yanks his arm out of David’s grasp, uncaring how it leaves the flesh of his wrist in tatters, and snarls at him. “I’m still half-human, _David_. Remember?”

David sneers. “How could I possibly forget.”

The urge to strike out at David, to swipe at him with claws and fists, to make him hurt - make him _bleed_ \- is intense. Michael bites his own tongue instead, determined not to give in to his steadily growing violent tendencies.

“Fuck this. I’m out.” He stomps over to where his coat is thrown haphazard over David’s chair, picking it up and shoving his arms through the sleeves, smearing blood all across the lining. He snatches his keys out of his pocket with a bloody fist, and heads for the exit.

The vampire’s voice rings out behind him, condescending, and all-around fucking infuriating at the moment. “Running home to Mommy again?”

Michael flashes David the finger over his shoulder, not looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It can't all be sunshine and rainbows, can it? *bites nails*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer than usual wait on this chapter folks! RL can be a grind sometimes, can't it? Once again, a huge thank you to everyone who's been reading along with this story. I'm so glad I'm not alone in my feelings for this movie and these characters. Your kudos/comments really keep me going. You're awesome, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

* * *

As Michael’s bike tears off into the night David lifts his chair into the air and hurls it across the room. It crashes into the surfboard souvenirs, knocking them down like bowling pins and sending Marko’s pigeons scattering for safety.

Rage consuming him, David whirls through the front room like a hurricane. His fury leaving a mark on the place that makes what Michael had done months prior seem the work of an angry toddler.

He loses himself in the wanton act of destruction, allowing empty satisfaction to override all sense he demolishes everything he can get his hands on. Laughter echoes in his skull as his claws shred through the Jim Morrison poster, leaving it in tatters. The jeering sounds of his brothers egging him on even in their absence.

His boot is poised in the air over a crate filled with Paul’s record collection when the laughter stops, sudden silence flooding the space it leaves behind. He stares down at the box. An album proclaiming ‘ _Come Taste the Band_ ’ looks back at him. Expelling the air from his lungs he slumps to the stone floor beside it. 

The stolen blood in his veins pounds against its prison, unhappy with the abrupt curbing of the violent outlet it so enjoys, but he tells it to shove it, closing his eyes and focusing on the sounds of the freaked out birds as they return one by one to their perches.

Fucking rats with wings, but he’s almost happy to have them around.

Better that than being alone.

He leans his head back and looks upward - firelight flickering in his peripheral and illuminating the ceiling overhead with dancing shadows. He sits and stares and tries to figure out _what the fuck just happened_.

He'd been certain pressing at the hunger clawing its way through Michael was the right call. All evidence pointing towards the half-vampire’s battle against it as all but lost. Had been planning to coax Michael out of the hotel and to the concert, where he’d be able to dangle a tasty treat or three in front of him, and let nature take its course.

But then Michael - _fucking Michael_ \- did what Michael seems to do best, and threw a fucking wrench into his wheels, making David skid the fuck out.

Getting a _fucking job_? To take care of **_his_ ** family?

No concern for where David fits into the mix. 

_What the fuck?_

David can’t make sense of it. He offers Michael immortality and - after one hell of a costly confrontation - Michael _accepts._ But still he _fights_. Denying what they both know he wants. _For months._

And why?

Because he can’t let his _family_ go long enough to see that David _is_ his family now. Or at least, he’s _trying_ to be, for all that Michael keeps throwing it back in his face.

For a moment - a passing second - David thinks maybe Max had the right of it. Maybe with the Emersons it has to be an all or nothing game. The lot of them too codependent to function without one another.

No sooner does he have the thought than he dismisses it. Not interested in turning anyone else anytime soon. Least of all an ankle-biting brat or middle-aged divorcee. And certainly not a withered old man. Not when he still has no idea what exactly the impact of creating a new vampire _has_ on him.

Because despite the anger - _the rage_ \- at the loss of his family, the ongoing _rejection_ of his gift that David thinks _should_ make him want to tear Michael limb from limb, David still _wants_ him.

All of him. To an absurd degree.

He doesn’t understand it.

But he doesn’t need to. Not yet. He can deal with it after Michael’s back. And he _will_ be back. Either to feed from David, or because he’s cracked and fed from someone else.

David would prefer the latter - save them both a lot of trouble if Michael would just eat his damn family - but either way, David will get what he wants. 

He just needs to be patient.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Ten days after walking out of the hotel, and seven days after starting his new job, Michael wakes at sunset with visions of crimson in his head and the bitter taste of copper on his tongue where he’s bit through it.

There’s a hammering inside his skull working in tandem with the hunger gnawing at his insides. The hunger a living, breathing _thing_ willing to settle for his own blood if he continues to refuse it the nourishment it desires.

Michael groans, the sound hollow, an empty plea made to the void of his room.

His sheets are soaked; skin sticky with cold sweat. Leaving the bedding to be dealt with later, he drags his body into the bathroom and under the shower head, rinsing away the nightmares of the day. He presses his head against the cool tile - scraping it back and forth against the grout - and turns the knob all the way to the left, letting the water pound down on him in steaming streams, heating his skin until it’s tender and pink. 

He stays under the spray long after all the heat has been used up - sunk useless into pores no longer able to appreciate it the way they once did - only bothering with using a soap and cloth to clean himself up once the water has turned icy.

He feels a little better when he’s done. A little more alive, for all that he knows what a joke of a descriptor that is for him these days.

As he gets dressed he wonders if it’s time to bite the bullet and return to the hotel. The anger that had been so fresh - so raw - when he’d stormed out, gone stale.

His hunger is in favor of it. But as Sam’s taken pleasure in pointing out to Michael - his hunger is an asshole and he shouldn’t listen to it. His libidio concurs with his hunger, of course, but he’s known for years _that_ persuasive bastard’s not to be trusted.

If that was all it was, he wouldn’t even bother giving the option half a moment's consideration. Willing instead to keep swallowing down the disgusting animal blood drippings his Grandpa has been supplying him with for the past week. 

But that’s not all there is. There are parts of him eager to put the fight behind them and move the fuck on for more opaque reasons. Quieter parts that pop up at odd intervals, suggesting a topic of conversation, or an activity, that they’d think David would be interested in. Parts that turn Michael’s head to the side when a streak of bleach blond walks by. Parts that expect David to be laying beside him when Michael wakes. 

When Michael takes the time to analyze it, it fucks him up to realize he _misses_ the vampire. He’s not sure what to do with the realization now that he’s had it, so he shelves it to be dealt with in that amorphous time known as _later_ , when all annoying and disconcerting things are addressed.

A decision made easier when he thinks about the way that David had sneered at Michael’s ongoing loyalty to his family. Recalls how he’d pushed and mocked and just been an _ass_ about it in general.

_“They’re not your family anymore, Michael!”_

The same righteous anger he’d felt that night in the hotel flares back to life at the memory.

Anger, but also _fear_.

Fear that David’s not wrong. That any day now, he’s going to break and feed and **kill,** and that after... _after_...his family won’t _be_ his family anymore. Either because they’ll be too frightened by what he’s become, or because _he_ won’t care about them anymore once he’s crossed that line. 

And when he thinks about it like that - when he lets the fear settle into his bones - he can’t help but question what the fuck he’s doing. And _why_.   

He stares through his translucent reflection in the mirror. The image more flimsy than it use to be. Verging on the edge of being gone. Like he’s a ghost. Or a placeholder for the person who’s supposed to be there.

Michael wonders how he’s going to feel when he can no longer see himself at all and finds that he’s less bothered by the concept than he is curious.

He guesses that means something important, but he’s done being introspective for the night. Filing the thought away with all the rest, he makes his way to the kitchen and the thermos of disappointing blood stashed in the fridge, before heading out for another night of cleaning up other people’s unwanted shit.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

David’s never been one for wallowing, but there’s no denying that’s what he’s doing.

Then again, he’s also drunk, so he figures he gets a pass.

Sequestered deep in the back rooms of the hotel, slouched back against the remains of what was once a fine wingback chair, enough liquor in him to bring down a horse (or ten) he stares at the last - forever unfinished - mural of Marko’s.

It’s all sketched out, in great big swaths of russet and black lines stretching from floor to ceiling. Parts of it are filled in with browns and greens and shades of vibrant red and tarnished gold, but the rest is empty space, with only the hint of what could have been present filling the gaps between.

There’s two figures in the foreground, and the outline of another handful off in the distance dancing amidst an incomplete landscape strewn with broken bodies and ruination. But it’s the pair in the front that are the furthest along. Enough that David can almost - but not quite - make out what’s going on.

One figure is crouched down low, hovering over another that’s sprawled on the ground. There’s the shadow of dark wings arching up and out from the hovering figure. Spread wide, the gold and red tips catch the light from the torch fire lighting the room, making them shimmer in the dark. The figure on the ground has a smaller pair crushed beneath their body, loose feathers dotting the scene around them.

There’s no detail to either of their faces. The places where eyes, a nose, _a mouth,_ should be are bare. Making it impossible to tell the intent behind their positioning. Is the hovering figure poised over the remains of a kill? Is it meant to be a savior swooping in for a last minute rescue?

Or just a poor bastard mourning someone it’s lost?

David’s too intoxicated to be able to hazard a sensible guess.

And Marko’s too dead to ask.

He takes another swig from the bottle gripped tight in his hand. He has no idea what the hell he’s even drinking anymore. Could be vodka, could be tequila. Hell, it could be rum for all he knows. The liquid is flavorless as it flows past taste buds murdered by the amount he’s imbibed.

But tasteless or not, it does its job well. 

Two weeks. _Two fucking weeks_ since Michael - stupid, beautiful, fascinating, stubborn as shit _Michael_ \- walked out in a huff, and he still hasn’t returned.

David can’t fathom it. Or rather, he doesn’t _want to_. Doesn’t want to think that maybe he pushed too hard, and Michael’s not coming back. Doesn't want to think that when Michael snaps and feeds, he’ll be so resentful of David that he’ll climb on his bike and leave him in the dust.

And then David really won’t have anything.

David’s eyes lose focus as he gazes at the mural, following the lines and angles, trying to see where it was all headed. He stares, and he imagines the kick his brothers would get at the pathetic mess he’s become.

 _—‘Fuck, man. What’s with all the maudlin shit? You_ used _to be fun.’_

 _‘Hehehe, think Davey boy’s got a_ crush _. Dontcha, Davey?’_

_‘How’s that vice your balls are trapped in, David? Comfy?’_

_‘Want us to do you a solid and cut ‘em off for you, man?’_  

 _‘Hah! Snip snip, Davey! Make ya feel better. Promise!’—_  

 ** _Fuck_.** He misses those assholes.

A whimper from the direction of the floor makes David swivel his head - loose from the abundance of alcohol coursing through his system - to look down at the leftovers he’d brought home with him from the liquor store. The bloodshot eyes of the cashier look back at him, a slow blink the only evidence of life still within them.

The man groans again, the sound liquid and frail. Fingers paw at David’s boot, grappling at the laces.

Disgusted, David grasps the man by his ears, and twists. Snapping his neck in one swift motion. The body crumples in a heap on the floor when he lets go, no longer useful as a meal.

But that’s okay, David’s not hungry anymore anyway. He lifts the bottle, and takes another drink.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Michael never thought he’d be peering into a thermos of blood from a bulldog wondering how to make it more palatable, but here he is.

He’s got nothing, unfortunately. And if the blood has any suggestions, it’s not sharing. It just sits there. A cold, congealed, _nauseating_ clump of reddish brown _gunk_. One of the least appetizing things he’s ever seen. Ever _smelled_.

He doesn’t want to drink it. Doesn’t want to even _consider_ drinking it. Feels as if he’s swallowed down all the putrid animal dreck he can stand for one lifetime. Beyond ready to swap it out for something warm. _Fresh_.

Straight from the source.

He indulges in the fantasy for a minute. Conjuring up visions of pale throats in his mind. Long columns of supple flesh broken by his teeth. Thick, warm, _red_ liquid coating his tongue.

It's David he sees at first, like always. Vivid memories of drinking from the blond easy,  _safe_ , to revisit. But soon Michael's imagination takes control, offering up other options.  _Human_ options. The asshole surfer from the pizza shop. The waitress from the bar. Sam's friend Carly from school. The manager from his mother's job.  _His father_. Then a series of nameless, faceless entities who have no meaning to Michael beyond a quick meal.

Michael wipes away the drool pooling on his lower lip, shaking the thoughts away. Imagining what he _wants_ to do and  _doing it_ are two different things. And all Michael has to do to know that he still isn’t ready to do... _that_...is glance around the kitchen. To where his brother’s school books are stacked on the table - pieces of paper sticking out of them, sketches filling the margins. Or at the shopping list on the fridge in his mother’s loopy writing. Hell, even at the overflowing garbage can waiting to be emptied.

All of it evidence of a life, of a home. _A family_. One that Michael loves. One that Michael doesn’t want to disappoint. Or abandon. Even if he doesn’t know where - _or how_ \- he fits into it anymore. They’re _his_. And he’s not going to give them up without a fight.

An icy chill settles over Michael, making him shiver in place. He curls his shoulders in, fluffing his jacket up in an effort to ward off the unexpected sensation, and goes back to contemplating the thermos of blood.

He’s counting backwards from ten, trying to psych himself up to swallow the piss-poor excuse for a meal, when Sam walks into the kitchen. “Heya, Mike. Thought you had work tonight?”

“Not for a couple hours.” Michael's voice is flat, dry. A lot like the rest of him.  

Sam nods, distracted as he yanks the fridge door open. He emerges with a plate of cling-wrapped leftover meatloaf. He grabs a fork from the drawer and fills a glass with water before plopping down at the table to enjoy his day-old meal.

Michael looks on, envious, as Sam digs in with gusto. Seeming happy with his choice, for all that he doesn't bother heating it in the oven first.

He’s not sure how long he watches his brother, but at some point Sam takes notice. Pausing with his fork mid-way to his mouth, turning wide eyes onto Michael. “Uh, Mike? You, uh, you’re creeping me out, man.”

Contrite, Michael looks away. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool.” It’s what he says, but Michael can hear the way that his pulse pumps a little faster. There’s no fear tainting his scent though, which is progress. When Michael glances back up, Sam is watching him, head cocked to the side. Expression a little curious, a little concerned. “Everything all right, Michael?” 

Michael doesn’t answer straight away. Weighing the pros and cons of being honest versus... _not_. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” 

Sam lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “You’re looking a little pale... _er_...than usual. Tired too.”

“Gee, _thanks_.”

“I’m serious. You look like you’re coming down with something.” His brows scrunch up as he looks at Michael. “Can vampires get sick?”

“How should I know?” The response is bitter, the reminder of just how little Michael _knows_ about what he's becoming unwelcome.

If Sam notices, he chooses not to comment on it. “I can call the Frogs, see if they-”

“I’m _fine_ , Sam.” Michael grumbles out the lie; feeling shaky, exhausted. _Pained_. But his brother doesn’t need to know all that. “Just getting used to the new schedule with work and everything.”

Sam’s mouth opens - Michael can see the argument forming on his face - but he snaps it shut when their grandfather enters the room, heading for the fridge without pause to grab a root beer and a half-eaten sandwich off the shelf.

He pops the top from the bottle, taking a long draw of the contents, releasing a pleased sigh as it goes down. “Ahh! Nothing better than a cold root beer after a long day, right boys?” 

“We wouldn’t know, Grandpa. We’re not allowed to have any.” Sam snarks at the old man, making Michael snort.

“No one’s stopping you from buying your own.”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll get right on that with all the spare cash I’m earning by going to school and doing my homework.”

“Plenty of ways to make money at school, boy, if you’re creative enough.” Michael and Sam share a look across the room as their grandfather chuckles and bites into his sandwich.

It’s nice to know the two of them are still united in their agreement that their grandfather’s missing a few screws.

The sound of chewing fills the room as Sam goes back to his meatloaf, and their grandfather munches on his sandwich. Attempts at conversation forgotten for the time being, Michael returns his focus to the thermos, rocking it back and forth in his hand, sloshing the contents about in an effort to make it less lumpy. After a quick countdown to brace himself, he lifts it to his lips and takes a sip. Grimacing at the putrid taste.   

His grandfather’s watching him when he lowers the thermos. The hairs on the back of Michael’s neck stand up straight. “What?”

“Not good?”

The question isn’t asked in a mocking or jovial manner, but instead with an air of honest curiosity. And seeing how the contents of the thermos were provided by the man asking it, Michael figures he can be a little honest back. “Not really.”

“Not fresh enough? Dog died yesterday, but I drained it this morning.”

“Maybe? I don’t know.” Michael shrugs. “Might not be so bad if it wasn’t cold.”

“Hrmph.” Their grandfather huffs out a breath, nodding. Then heads for a cabinet, rummaging around before pulling a beat up looking pot from the far back and smacking it down on the stovetop. He grunts at Michael, gesturing for the thermos. Confused, but unwilling to argue, Michael hands it over.

His grandfather proceeds to pour the blood into the pot, then lights the burner beneath it, turning the knob all the way back so that the flame is only a tiny flicker under the metal. “Make yourself useful and grab a spoon. Gonna need to stir it while it heats or it’ll burn.”

Gobsmacked, Michael does as he’s told. The hunger that is his eternal roommate as intrigued by the idea of drinking artificially warmed blood as Michael is annoyed at not having thought of it.

“Oh _gross_. You’re gonna cook _blood_ on the _stove_?” Sam’s voice goes off into that higher pitched register of his as he yelps out the question. His face an interesting mix of scandalized and repulsed.

Their grandfather lifts his brows at Sam. “Boy’s gotta eat. I’d rather it be that old bat from the diner’s _dead dog_ than you or me. But, if you’d prefer to be on the menu…”

Sam shudders. “Thanks for that image, Grandpa.”

Michael wants to feel bad at how disturbed Sam is, but it’s a hard emotion to summon with the scent of the slowly warming blood nabbing his attention.

His grandfather hands him a ladle. Michael takes it, eager, and transfers the contents of the pot into a mug.

He hears rather than sees his brother push away from the table. “Think I’ll go upstairs and hug my dog.” Neither Michael nor their grandfather make a move to stop the younger teen as he takes his leave.

Michael takes a sip of the heated blood. It’s better - leaps and bounds better - than the refrigerated version, but it’s still sour. And a little slimy as it goes down. Like lunch meat that’s gone past its expiration date.

His grandfather's watching him while he drinks it down, giving Michael a better appreciation for how Sam felt under Michael’s stare.

“You and the blond have a falling out?”

Michael sputters around his meal. Lifting a hand up to catch the blood trying to escape his lips, wiping it up and licking it off. “What?”

“You been around more the last couple weeks than you have since you moved here. Curious if you and the vampire you’ve been shacking up with had a fight that sent you running.”

“We’re not _shacking up_ , Grandpa!” Michael stammers out, wide-eyed. 

His grandfather rolls his eyes and takes another long sip of his root beer. “Call it what you want, it don’t matter a lick to me, but you can’t deny you’d been spending more nights - and days - with him than here until recent.”

Panic rises in Michael, unprepared for the conversation. “I’m _not._ But that doesn’t mean that I’m... _that we’re_ -” 

His Grandpa gives him a _look_ that stops Michael mid-sentence. It says that Michael’s an absolute idiot if he thinks his grandfather is going to swallow whatever lies he’s about to serve. “You think I care about _that_ , Kid? Lot more important shit to worry over. Like how you’ve been getting by just fine since the summer without animal blood for all that Sam made your case for it at the start, and now it seems like it’s all that’s keeping you from making snacks of the lot of us.”

Michael’s heart thumps in his chest, distressed at the accusation. “Grandpa, I _wouldn’t_ -”

The old man sighs, the sound long and weary. “I believe you wouldn’t want to, Kid. I do. But you can only fight your instincts for so long before you’ll lose.” Michael frowns, but can’t argue the point. All too aware that he’s on a downward spiral with no way to climb back up. His grandfather leans back against the counter, giving Michael a sympathetic once over. “What happened?”

Michael shrugs. Shuffling from foot to foot, uncomfortable. “Just a disagreement.”

“Bad enough that you've been hiding out here moping?”

“I'm not hiding!” Michael hisses, then as an afterthought. “And I'm not moping either.”

His grandfather chuckles. “Lie to me all you want, but don't lie to yourself. You've been wandering around the place with a black cloud over your head. And somehow, I don't think it's cause you've had a sudden bout of conscience over a choice you made months ago.”

Michael shakes his head, the denial coming swift and easy. “It wasn’t a _choice_ , Grandpa, I told you all that-” 

His grandfather’s eyes narrow, the sympathy replaced with annoyance. “What? That bull about you having drank too much? You want to feed that shit to Lucy and Sam, fine. But we both know better, don’t we?” Michael swallows, the truth in his grandfather’s words stealing the lies from out of his lungs. “You _chose this_ , Michael. If you didn’t want it, you could have put a stake through that boy’s heart at any point during the last few months. Bet you’ve had plenty of chances.”

Unbidden, a growl rises out of Michael; anger licking at its heels. He closes his eyes, knowing that yellow is bleeding through the blue; pissed that his grandfather can unravel the control he’s been working so hard on with a single comment.

It takes him longer than he’d like to calm down. When he does, his grandfather is watching him again, seeming older. “Yeah...that’s what I thought. Don’t even like hearing it suggested, huh?” 

Michael works his jaw back and forth, shaking his head once. “No.” 

His grandfather nods. “Might do you some good to think about why that is.”

Michael’s frown deepens. Uncertain where to even _start_ with that. He’s known since the moment he thought he’d killed David that he doesn’t want the vampire dead. Has known for almost as long that there’s something between the two of them that goes beyond a similar food source. 

Or lust.

Because the truth is, Michael _likes_ spending time with him. Likes the snippets he’s seen of who David _is_ beneath the bloodthirsty predator he presents to the world. Well, when he’s not being an oppressive _asshole_ that is.

He doesn’t know what any of that _means_ though. Has actively avoided trying to figure it out.

But maybe his grandfather’s right, and it’s time to start.

His grandfather chuckles, the echoing sound seizing Michael’s attention. “Don’t hurt yourself working it all out at once, Kid. You got time. A whole lot of it. Maybe start by finishing your meal so you look less like the living dead, and go from there.”

Michael huffs out a laugh at the absurdity of the discussion, and does as he’s told.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

 _Seventeen fucking days_ , and Michael still hasn’t cracked.

David would be impressed, if he wasn’t busy being infuriated.

How the hell the half-vampire’s managed to go so long without a source of blood, David has no idea. If Michael wasn’t so holier than thou, David would think maybe he’d cut a deal with his little brother and has been taking hits direct from the tap.

Or rather, he _would_ if it weren't for the fact that David knows the second Michael gets real _human_ blood in his system for the first time, he won’t be able to _stop_. So if he were to try using Sam - or anyone else - as a living feedbag, he’d just end up with a full stomach and a corpse.

A scenario that David would be fucking _thrilled_ to see made a reality.

Too bad Michael refuses to get with the program. 

In the face of the half-vampire’s monumental level of restraint, David caves, the need to set eyes on Michael overriding the urge to continue drowning his sorrows in booze and memories. So he returns to good old fashioned stalking, following his lover as he goes about his _job_ at the boardwalk.

David watches him - _for hours_ \- picking up cups and soda cans and tissues and all manner of _shit_ other people have left behind. Emptying trash cans and restocking the bathrooms. 

It’s all so fucking _normal_ it’s disturbing.

Fury rises in David as the night wears on. Insulted that Michael would choose _this_ over _him_.

He's contemplating throwing his plan of waiting for Michael to come to him out the window, just so he can have the satisfaction of shaking some fucking sense into him, when Michael pauses beneath one of the flickering floodlights facing in David's direction. For a second, David thinks maybe Michael knows he's there and is just as ready for this ridiculous stalemate to end.

But if Michael knows he's nearby, he doesn't let on. Instead, he leans against the lamppost, wiping sweat from his brow, and sucking in long, measured breaths. In the stark lighting, David can see how worn out he is. Skin sallow, and eyes glassy. He looks thinner too. Anemic. _Weak._

It's clear to David that Michael's starving. 

But it's not the type of starving that proceeds a feral loss of control and a fireside slaughter. It's the kind of starving that proceeds falling unconscious and not waking back up. 

A foreign feeling floods David at the realization. It makes his spine stiffen, and his chest clench. He doesn't like it. Not one bit. 

David watches as Michael lurches down the boards to his next task, and comes to a decision. When Michael turns the corner, leaving David's line of sight, David launches from his overhead perch in search of a meal big enough for two. 

One way or another, Michael  _needs_ to feed.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Michael’s in the middle of a work shift when he learns that animal blood is even more disgusting coming back _up_ then it is going down.

He learns this while grasping onto the metal railing along the edge of the boardwalk, where he vomits up every drop of his evening meal; staining the sand beneath him a dirty crimson. He keeps heaving long after his stomach is empty. Bile joining the mess in the sand, then saliva. Then nothing but air.

When it stops, his body feels like a dried up husk, wrung of all it’s moisture. Once he can stand straight, he stumbles to his bike, not bothering with heading back to the maintenance shop first to clock out. 

Riding on autopilot, he ends up back at his grandfather’s house. He knows he’s made a mistake driving home instead of to the hotel when he can’t even make it past the porch without the scent and sound of his family - tucked safe in their beds - assaulting him from all sides. 

Pain hits him next, a crippling stabbing sensation in his gut that has him pressing one hand to his abdomen in a futile effort to ward it off, while the other clutches at the porch banister to help him stay upright.

He glances back at his bike, tossed careless on the dirt nearby, but knows that if he tries riding it now he’s going to end up wrapped around a tree. He looks up at his window, left open by design, and wills his body to lift. But it stays suctioned to the ground like an anchor. 

So flying in this condition is out too. 

Nothing else for it but forward, he sucks in a breath of moist air, and forces his knees to lift, one at a time, making the slow climb up the porch into the house. The scents and sounds are stronger once he’s over the threshold, but his body is too weak to do much but grumble at the proximity of food it's too tired to bother with. 

He flicks weary eyes towards the stairs, before turning his attention towards the kitchen and making his way to the fridge, where his grandfather’s latest offering sits in it's insulated thermos. 

No energy to heat it up this time, Michael twists the cap off, bracing himself for the inevitable wave of disgust that always accompanies drinking the wretched stuff, and takes a swig.

The viscous fluid hits the back of his throat like a lump of tar. He gags around it, his body trying to expel it before it can slink down his throat, but he forces himself to swallow. He shudders as he takes another gulp, determined to get _something_ into his system, but he can’t handle any more than that.

He puts the lid back on, but keeps the thermos clamped in hand as he drags his sorry carcass through the house and up the stairs to his room. 

Once he’s over the threshold, he presses his back against the door, using the weight of his body to shut it. Wishing he had a lock to discourage anyone from entering.   

He eyes the chair over by the desk, thinking it could make a decent makeshift barrier to entry if he shoves it beneath the doorknob, but he only makes it a few feet into the room before he’s forced to alter his course for the trashcan by the side of the bed. 

He crumples to the ground, grasping the metal rim of the can, and heaves up the liquid he just drank. Coughing and sputtering until his stomach is empty once more. 

Several fortifying breaths later, he slumps back against the side of his bed. Sick with pain and frustration, he kicks out at the thermos he’d dropped by his side, sending it rolling along until it hits the wall beneath his window. 

He watches as it rocks to a standstill, blinking back hot tears, he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, digging them in as a counterpoint to the pain.

Everything in him tells him that what’s happening to him is worse than just _not good_. That death is done toying with him, and if he doesn't take action _right fucking now_ it’s going to collect his sorry ass.

“David…” The name croaks out of Michael with his next breath. A futile prayer he has no hope of having answered, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. Eyes screwed up tight, he pictures the blond’s face in his mind. The sight offering a strange sort of comfort. Focused as best he can around the waves of agony eating him alive, he sends out another plea, reaching for the vampire in his head. ‘ _David…please…help.’_

The amount of time it takes for a response is minuscule. And when it comes, it's not in the form of an unspoken word or cruel laughter. Instead, it arrives through the open window of Michael’s room, the air jumping and settling with David’s landing. 

Michael’s eyes snap to the vampire. The connection between them - a connection Michael hadn’t realized had been stretched so thin over the last few weeks - sighs with relief at David’s proximity.

Or maybe that’s just Michael. The sight of the blond standing in front of his window so welcome it steals the breath from his lungs.

“Hello, Michael.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you finished writing this chapter - complete with smut! - on your phone, while on a plane, while sitting NEXT TO YOUR BOSS? *raises hand* Don't judge me. 
> 
> Oddly enough, this writing 'process' has - SOMEHOW - resulted in the longest chapter to date!
> 
> In case smut is not your thing, it starts about 2/3 of the way through the chapter, and is bookended by talking. (So. Much. Talking.) 
> 
> Once again, a giant THANK YOU to everyone who has been reading along. You guys give me so much motivation, you don't even know. 
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy :-D

* * *

_“Hello, Michael.”_  

“David?” Michael wipes at his eyes with his fingers, scraping away the wetness in the hopes of clearing his blurred vision. It helps. A little. “You’re here.” His voice cracks, dry. “How’d you...?”

David’s shoulders move in an indifferent shrug. “Was in the neighborhood, heard you call. I’d ask how you’ve been but...” David trails his eyes up and down Michael’s sprawled form, a hint of a smirk painting his lips. “The answer’s obvious.”

The pain hammering at Michael’s temples concurs. Michael curls the fingers of one hand into the carpet, gripping at the shaggy threads to anchor himself. It’s like the pain has gone from zero to sixty in a heartbeat, and he doesn’t understand _why_. “Why’s this happening to me, David?” 

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Michael. _You know._ ” David hisses out the last words, bitterness coating the syllables.  

But Michael _doesn’t_. Not really. This isn’t like before, when he’d felt ready to snap at the nearest human and dine until their veins ran dry. He’d felt strong then. _Ravenous_ , but strong.

And unlike before, this time he _has_ been eating. A shitty tasting alternative option, but what should that matter? Blood is blood.

Michael’s lips part to try and explain what he means, but David’s foot taps the discarded thermos as he steps further into the room, drawing his attention down. He frowns at the canister, picking it up and unscrewing the cap; head reeling back in disgust when he takes a whiff. “ _What is this_? Raccoon?”

Michael licks his lips in a futile effort to moisten them. “Muskrat.”

David shudders, nose and face scrunching up in tandem, and replaces the lid with haste. “How’s that taste?”

Michael tries shaking his head, but it comes out as more of a full body shiver. Cold beads of sweat trace a path down the side of his face. “Awful. Can’t...can’t keep it down anymore.”

“Not surprised. The stuff’s _foul_.” David’s gaze is stony; his voice just as hard. “This what you’ve been surviving on since you stormed off?” 

Michael shrugs, the movement sending a cascade of pain down his back and into his abdomen. With effort, he manages to keep his eyes on David as he slumps further against the bed. “Dog. Mostly.”

David sucks on the back of his teeth. “Just as bad. Animal swill works in a pinch. But not for long. And how you are right now? Half-turned?” He tosses the thermos onto the dresser where it gets sucked up in a pile of Michael’s discarded clothes. “Your body knows what it _needs_ , Michael. And that’s not it.”

Michael blinks weary, aching eyes at the vampire. He tries to frown, but his facial muscles don’t seem to want to cooperate. He’s aware how frail - how powerless - he must appear, but he doesn’t have the energy to pretend he's anything else. “You could have _said_ something, asshole.”

David arches a brow. “You didn’t ask.”

Irritation surges in Michael. “ _Damn it, David!_ You should have-”

“Should have _what_ , Michael? Explained to you that if you don’t _feed_ , you’ll _starve_? I’ve done nothing _but_ tell you that since this started!” David seethes. Anger lighting up his face. But his fangs don’t drop, and his eyes don’t change. The frustration shining through all-too-human in appearance. “ _F_ _orgive me_ for not thinking you’d stoop to poisoning yourself with animal slop.”

“Poi-poison?” Michael chokes on the word.

David’s jaw clenches, his voice a tightly bound coil of emotion. “In a manner of speaking. Quiets the hunger. But it’s a _trick_. Got just enough of what we need to keep us from going feral - which is why you haven’t torn the town and this house apart yet - but not enough to keep our bodies from eating away at themselves.” David sneers at Michael, lip curling at the edge to reveal the hint of pointed teeth. “Which is why you feel like a wasted bag of flesh right now.” 

Michael frowns, annoyed that he's only hearing about this _now_. Too tired to bother opening his mouth, he throws a thought at David instead. _‘Would have been good to know.’_

“Yeah, well, now you do.” 

Michael would like to rail at the vampire. Shout at him that it's _his_ fault Michael's this way to begin with, and so it's damn well _his_ responsibility to make sure Michael _knows these things_ , but his stomach seizes up again, the sensation akin to having his intestines scrambled. He gasps out at the pain, tugging his knees inward, his head falling to meet them. _“Fuck!”_  

There’s a flicker of movement from the direction of the vampire. It takes Michael several long, measured breaths to push the pain down. Heart still rocking against his ribs, he peels his eyelids open and looks back to David and finds him standing closer, forcing Michael to tip his head further back to meet his eyes.

Michael tries to read the expression on his face, but it's like an opaque mask has been dropped over it, he’s giving so little away. With the last of his energy draining - fast - Michael swallows down the lingering remnants of his pride, figuring it won’t serve him any good if he winds up _dead_. “Will you help me?”

David’s head tilts to the side. His voice carefully subdued. “That depends.”

“On?”

“On _you_ , Michael.” David doesn’t say anything else. He doesn't need to. The meaning of those three words far easier to decipher than his expression.

Disappointment floods Michael. It mixes with his frustration and his anger, bringing with it a wave of hurt that’s not at all physical in nature, for all that it hits like a punch to the gut.

Of course David wants Michael to... _of course_.

Michael hates himself a little for expecting anything else.

It would be easy - so very easy - to just give in, give David what he’s after. But he can hear his brother snoring in his sleep the next room over, Nanook snuffling by his side. Can make out the slow and steady beats of his mother’s heart, and of his grandfather’s, from their own rooms. And he knows that he’s not ready to give them up. That he may _never_ be. Least of all for someone who doesn’t seem to give a shit about the toll it’ll take on him to do so. “ _I can’t_ , David.”

David narrows his eyes; body tensing and back going stiff. “You’d rather die?” 

Michael doesn’t want that. _He doesn’t._  But what choice does he have if David won’t help him otherwise? Michael lifts his chin to meet David’s glare, and nods.

David growls, human teeth standing out white against the pale pink of his lips. By his sides, Michael can see his hands closing into fists. “Too damn stubborn for your own good, Michael. You know that?”

Michael can’t manage another nod, so he blinks at him instead. _‘Maybe. But don’t know how else to be.’_  

David’s jaw ticks back and forth as he looks at Michael. Staring at him for so long that Michael thinks maybe David’s just hanging around to watch him die. 

But then David looks away, releasing a long stream of air towards the ceiling. The tension in his spine fades away with the breath until the figure he presents is a little smaller. A little less the intimidating predator he wears so often, and more that of just a man. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He meets Michael’s eyes again, gaze as sharp as his fangs, and lifts his wrist to his own mouth, piercing the flesh.

As the bright, coopery tang of the blood reaches Michael, his nostrils flare and his fangs drop. But the delicious scent of the blood pales in comparison to the shock Michael feels at David biting his own wrist to feed him, even after Michael refused to give in and do what David _wants_.  

Michael’s not sure what it means, but he knows it means _something_.  

Something far heavier and more complex than he's capable of dealing with at the moment, not when his hunger is roaring back to life at the offer of food. He tries to push up to his knees, wanting to climb to his full height, but he falls back against the side of the bed; flat on his ass.

David’s face tightens, anger clouding it as he squats down next to him and presses his bleeding wrist to Michael’s drooling mouth. The hand not being used to feed Michael goes around his neck, the fingers dipping into his hair, sharp nails digging into the scalp, breaking the skin to hold him in place. 

Not that Michael cares, not when he feels like a man that’s been stranded in a desert being led to water.

The first lap of his tongue against the blood is nirvana. It sends his eyes rolling back, and a moan pouring out of him. The heady rush of it makes his head spin, leaving him dizzy. He locks an arm up and around David’s for purchase, afraid he might slip away. He pulls his wrist in closer, pressing his mouth to it tighter. Latching on and sucking at the source, his nerve endings sing back to life.

The flow is a trickle at first; the angle not ideal and the distance the stagnant blood has to travel much further than when Michael drinks from David’s neck. But the longer Michael pulls - suckling at the torn flesh between his lips - the faster it comes. Until - at last - it pours into him.

As Michael drinks, David leans over him, one knee hitting the floor, and his chin brushing against the top of Michael’s bent head. His voice washes over Michael like an icy river, pricking and cutting and numbing and soothing all at once. “You try and pull this starving yourself shit again, and I _promise you_ that you are going to wake up in a pit with a dozen broken and bleeding humans, and the only way you’re going to get out is by eating them all. **_You hear me_**?”

The hand in Michael’s hair shakes him back and forth, causing Michael’s teeth to tear at the wrist in his mouth. David doesn’t flinch, just let’s Michael continue to dig in and drink his fill. Michael reaches up with his free hand, grasping at the back of David’s hand where it’s balled in a fist by his head, holding it steady in his grip. He lifts his eyes to David’s. _‘Never again.’_  

The expression on David’s face eases, the hand at the back of Michael’s head carding through the curls in uneven strokes, fingertips gentle against his scalp. Michael moans, eyes sliding shut as he loses himself in the touch. 

And in the taste.

The liquid filling him up is rich. Salty but _sweet._ The flavor fuller, more _alive,_ than the animal trash he’s been trying to sustain himself on. It’s warm - _fresh_ \- in a way that he knows means David fed just before coming to him. In a way that means someone who woke up this morning will never wake up again.  

Michael knows he should feel guilty. Disgusted. _Horrified_. But as the hunger that has been eating him from the inside out is appeased drop by drop, all he can feel is _thankful_. Thankful that David fed. Thankful that David answered his plea when he did. Thankful that David is willing to share.

Thankful that David is _here_.

His strength returning Michael shuffles closer, releasing one hand from David’s arm to grasp at the lapel of his coat, pulling David bodily into him as he continues to suck at the wound. Wanting - _needing_ \- him closer. Uncertain why the _hell_ he’s been denying himself this. The fight they’d had seeming ancient and pointless.  

 _This_ is where he belongs. _This_ is what he’s meant to be. The threads connecting them spin and twist and tighten the longer he drinks, until Michael feels as if every speck of him has been interwoven with David.

It’s a prospect that would have been frightening once, but now...now it makes him feel _whole_.  

There’s a kaleidoscope of memories, of thoughts and emotions, dancing between them. Intertwined. Of Michael and David. Of Sam and the Boys. Of Michael’s mother. His father. Max. Of the girl Michael’d lost his virginity to. Of a woman with red hair and sad eyes. Of flying and riding. Of laughing and dying and feeding. All of it coming in flickers and flashes too quick to grasp, but the impressions they carve in their wake are deep and profound. 

The flow of blood into Michael begins to slow, but Michael doesn’t stop. He groans, clinging tightly to the wrist and tighter to David, not ready to let go. Craving _more_. More blood for certain. But also, more of _David_. Desperate to keep the connection alive.

The movement of the fingers in Michael’s hair slows down, but doesn’t stop. The scrape of blunt nails over the skin tender, causing Michael to shiver in pleasure. David’s voice is a cool balm in Michael’s skull. _‘That’s enough, Michael.’_

The statement - a command for all it is also kind - seeps into Michael’s brain, but it’s swallowed up with the next draw of blood. A flutter of a request easily dismissed in favor of the warmth suffusing Michael as he continues to drink and drink. 

 _And_ _drink_.

He never wants to  _stop_. 

The next time Michael hears David make the request, he’s _far_ from kind. Snarling in Michael’s ear, his voice gravel rough. “ ** _Enough_**!” The tips of David’s claws dig into Michael’s scalp, gripping the flesh and tugging his head back, prying Michael’s jaw open wide against his will and forcing David’s wrist from his fangs.

His wrist free of Michael, David disengages his hand from the back of Michael’s head, dropping away from him. Pleasantly full, Michael leans towards him, arms reaching out without a thought, wanting to pull the vampire back in close. 

But all he grasps is empty air.

Panic spikes in Michael at the absence. He lifts his head, scanning in front of him for David. His electrified nerves settling when he sees that the blond hasn’t disappeared on him. 

He’s leaning - just out of reach of Michael - against the side of the dresser, leather-clad legs sprawled in haphazard angles in front of him and panting for breath. His eyes are screwed shut, an almost gray cast to the hollows beneath them, and skin paler than usual. Paler than Michael’s ever _seen_ , save the night he pulled his body from the horns.  

Cold dread creeps up Michael’s spine. “David?” His voice wavers as he whispers the name. Frightened in a way he doesn’t want to examine.

Too many seconds pass before David answers, eyes still shut tight, and mouth unmoving. _‘Yes, Michael?’_  

Michael heaves out a relieved sigh. _‘You okay?’_

Humorless laughter bubbles up inside of David, echoing painfully inside Michael’s skull for all that it doesn’t breach the world outside. _‘Worried about me, Michael?’_  

“Yeah. I am.” 

David opens his eyes; the blue of his irises is striking against the pallor of his skin. The expression on his face flirts with surprise before landing on a mocking sort of disbelief. “That’s a first.” 

Michael shoots him a look. Hurt by the derisive comment. Unable to comprehend how David could even _think_ that after... _after_. 

Unable to put voice to the upheaval of emotions what they just shared has caused - all of it too fresh and strange to convey - Michael instead draws upon the memory of sitting beside David’s too still body the night Michael thought he’d killed him. Recalls - in as clear and deliberate a way as he can - how it had _felt_ to look at him, believing he'd killed him. Believing David would be dust by sunrise.

The feelings are dark. Painful.

_Abhorrent._

The expression on David’s face falters, astonishment settling over it.

The corners of Michael’s lips tilt up in a wry grin directed at himself as much as at the vampire. The recognition of just how much David has come to mean to him less surprising in retrospect than he might have thought, but he can see how it would still catch the vampire off guard. “You offered to let me kill you once, David. I said _no_. Why do you think that was?” 

A smirk taints the blond’s face, but it’s forced. “Immortality is a hell of a prize, Michael.” There’s a tick beneath David’s eye as he says it. A barely there tell that Michael knows damn well David would be able to mask if he wasn’t weakened from blood loss.

Weakened by Michael.

Michael clears his throat. David may still be clinging to his pride, but Michael no longer sees any value in continuing to deny his own truths. “Not to me.”

David sneers, exasperation polluting his words. “You made a _choice_ , Michael.” 

Michael nods, agreeing for all they both know it was barely a choice at all. “I'm not saying I didn't. But that doesn’t mean -” Michael cuts himself off, looking away. The emotions too heavy - _too real_ \- to put into words, for all that he _wants_ to.  

Instead he hooks his gaze into David's, and with deliberate intent recalls Sam when he was all of six years old. Crying until snot ran down his face, sitting on a curb with bruised and bloody knees and hands after falling while trying to ride Michael’s skateboard. Michael stares at David while he recalls how Sam had reached out to him for comfort, the little boy too big for Michael to carry with any ease. But he’d done it anyway, carting his brother back to the house and cleaning his wounds best he could before their parents made it home. And when their father had gotten in and found out that Michael had lost his skateboard? 

Well, Michael never let his father put a hand on Sam.

The next day, Sam had snuck out before anyone was awake. When he came back, his shirt was torn and he was missing a shoe, but he’d had Michael’s skateboard in hand. 

There’s just not a universe that Michael can imagine where leaving his little brother to fend for himself would be easy to do.

Not for anything. 

“I love my brother, David. I love _my family._ Walking away from that’s not easy.” Michael cuts his gaze away and back again, meeting David’s eyes with a slanted stare. “I’m not doing it because I think living forever sounds _neat_.” 

“You’re not doing it at all yet.”

Michael picks at a loose stitch sticking out of his jeans, shrugging. “I’m getting there.”

David’s voice is toneless. “Funny. You ‘getting there’ is awful similar to you fighting it.” 

“Funny. For someone who claims to be immortal, you sure are impatient.”

David gives him a sardonic smile. “Nothing like having your whole family killed to make you question the nature of your own mortality, Michael.”

Michael swallows the lump that forms in his throat at the statement. “Yeah. I can imagine.”

David's voice is somber when he answers, head cocking to the side as he assesses him. “You probably can, can't you?”

Michael holds his gaze until the weight of the vampire's stare becomes heavier than he can handle. He glances away - towards his open window, the heavy curtain over it knocked out of place - and focuses his attention on the sound of his own heartbeat, so much slower even while he’s awake than those of his family while they sleep. But slow or not, it’s still _beating_. 

He knows it won’t always be. Hell, everyone learns that at some point or another. Death more certain than life. But coming to terms with the knowledge that it’s going to slow to a standstill while he keeps walking is something else. 

But even _that_ is something he’s made a sort of peace with over the last few months. The want of a racing pulse more of an affectation than anything. But the want of his family?

 _That’s_ real. But so is something _else_ that he wants too. He swings his head back to David, taking a moment to soak in the sight - the presence - of him.

He really _has_ missed him.

“Don’t ask me to choose, David.” 

David’s gaze turns bitter. “Why? Because I’ll lose?” The question is clipped, the words said with a weight that doesn’t match their derisive tone. Michael can almost _see_  the wall they are meant to erect between the two of them. 

And _that_ right there let's Michael know that, for all David would deny it, Michael has the capacity to _hurt_ him. But he doesn’t _want_ to. Has no energy left in him for anything of the sort. “No.” Michael shakes his head. “Because I will.”

If Michael thought David appeared bewildered earlier, it’s nothing in comparison to the stupefied look on his face now. The emotion spilling over to a vocal query so quiet that even Michael has a hard time hearing it. “ _What?_ ” 

“If you make me choose, I lose. No matter what.” Michael keeps his eyes locked on David's, hoping he can see the truth behind what he says. “Either I lose my family, or...or I lose you.” Michael sucks in a breath, feeling the way that his pulse picks up speed at the confession. Knowing David can hear it too. “I don’t want to do either.” 

Silence disturbed only by Michael’s racing heart settles between them again, neither of them looking away from the other. The minutes that tick by aren’t awkward, exactly, but nor are they comfortable. Instead they're stuck somewhere in between. 

Like Michael. 

This time it’s David who speaks first, breaking the silence for all that his voice remains a quiet monotone. “You don't have to.” 

Michael furrows his brows, confused. “What?”

“Lose them. You don't have to.” David looks a little sick, a little desperate when he says it.

Michael squints at him. Surprised that David would go where Michael _thinks_ he's going. “You mean turn them?” 

David nods, once. The action pained.

It's evident that David doesn't like the idea. His frame where it rests against the dresser going stiff, his jaw held as tight as the fists he rests on his bent knees. But the fact that he's even suggesting it?

It's just one more thing for Michael to add to the ever growing list of things that _mean_ something. 

Michael drags a hand through his hair, scratching at the scalp just above where David’s nails left behind nicked flesh and droplets of now dried blood. “I've thought about it. But…”

“But?”

“They're not… They're not like… _us_.” Michael heaves a breath out on the last word. Owning what he is - for all that he's not crossed the finish line yet - both all too easy and so very hard to do. “I can't - I won't ask them to be killers. If we - If _I_ \- can manage to, uh, _not_ kill - once I already _have -_  then maybe…" He shakes his head. Unable to imagine Sam, or his Mom, _killing anyone._ Unable to imagine them  _agreeing_. "Then maybe. Assuming…” He trails off, not wanting to give voice to the thing he's most afraid of.

But he doesn't need to, because David does it for him. “Assuming when you finish turning you even still care about them at all.”

“Yeah.” Michael rubs the palms of his hands over his legs, scratching his nails up and down the material.

“For what it's worth, as much of a stubborn ass as you are about absolutely everything, I’d be willing to bet that you _will_.” David’s eyes lock on Michael, his voice turning from light-hearted to serious on a dime. “We do _change_ , Michael, but not that much. Not the fundamental things they make us who we _are_. You think I'd be so eager to have you join me, if I didn't think you'd be _you_ anymore after?” 

“But we do change. And placing odds isn't the same as a guarantee.”

It takes David long, silent moments to answer. When he does, he sounds defeated. “No. It's not.”

David sits there, quiet. Holding Michael’s gaze for minutes that seem to last beyond measure before he turns his head away, peering off into Michael’s room. At the walls. At his posters. At anything else aside from Michael. 

Michael waits. For what, he’s not certain, but he exercises restraint even so.

“Okay.” The word rings out into the air loud and decisive. 

But Michael doesn't know what it _means_. “Okay?”

David turns back to Michael. “I won’t ask you again. To choose. But Michael, this _can't last_.” His eyes sharpen on Michael, the register of his voice brooking no arguments. “You know that, right? As pleasant as it's been for the both of us, I can't stay your sole source of food for much longer or you _will_ starve.” He gestures at Michael then at himself. “And I'd rather not have a repeat of _this_.”

Shocked, Michael opens and closes his mouth, uncertain how to respond. He settles on a simple: “Me neither.”

“Good.” 

In a blink, Michael crosses the space between them and presses his mouth to David’s, urgent. A swell of gratitude flavored with hope at the vampire's acquiescence urging him on. 

David parts his lips beneath Michael’s; at the first slide of the blond’s tongue against his own, Michael moans. Eager for more, he coasts his hand upwards to cup David's neck - the side of his face - tilting his head to allow him better access as he deepens the kiss. 

He expects David to bite at his lips, to draw blood and get some of his own back. Like they so often do after Michael has fed, but he doesn’t. Instead keeping his teeth to himself while he continues to kiss him. One hand gripping Michael’s arm at the bicep while the other wraps around his back, by the base of his spine. He tugs Michael onto him where he's still sitting on the floor, sending Michael sprawling on top of him in an ungraceful heap, not that either of them care. Not when it presses them closer together. Soft breaths of air pass in the space between kisses, cool and metallic and familiar.

Michael’s missed this. Missed _him_. 

Too much for a quick fumble on the floor of Michael’s room. Not when there's a perfectly good bed five feet away.

Michael slips his free arm around David and pulls him until they’re both standing. Kissing him the whole while, unwilling to part ways for even a moment, he turns them both and walks them towards the bed.

There’s a niggling worry in the back of his mind when David doesn’t fight him at the manhandling the way that he normally does, but it evaporates when David enthusiastically assists Michael in shucking the clothing from one another.   

David’s coat hits the floor first, followed by their shirts. Their shoes are kicked to the side, hitting Michael's closet and dresser with unsynchronized thumps. Their pants follow soon after. Hands roam over each span of skin as it is exposed, tracing along the well-known dips and planes of one another's chests and arms and legs. Lips and tongues and teeth following behind fingertips.

The barriers separating them torn away, Michael presses David to sit on the edge of the bed, sinking to his knees in front of him as he does. Uncertainty blends with desire at his intended course of action. Michael’s had his mouth on David before, but never like this. Never with head bent, in a bastard form of supplication. Never with David perched on the edge of Michael’s bed, with Michael’s knees pressed into the carpet of his room, his family located just steps away, on the other side of a door that doesn’t lock.

Not like now.

But now is what’s happening, and now is exactly what Michael needs, what Michael _wants_. And so he drags his lips up the inside of David’s thigh, nipping at the flesh over the artery, but not breaking the skin. He can feel - _smell_ \- the blood just beneath the surface. Enticing and delicious. 

But that’s not what he’s after.

He traces the path ever upwards, following the curve of David’s leg until he reaches his destination and wraps his lips around the head of his lover’s cock. It swells further, twitching against his tongue as David lets go of a guttural groan, hand running through Michael’s hair, twisting in the curls at his nape and holding him in place. 

Michael’s hands skate up David’s legs, the firm muscle beneath the flesh tensing and flexing as he does, sending a shiver through Michael just the same as it does through David. He pushes them apart so that he can rest more easily in the cradle they create while he works his mouth up and down the shaft. Tracing his tongue along the vein at the underside, before hollowing out his cheeks and sucking him down as far as he can manage. David’s hand flexes tight in Michael’s hair, pulling at the strands. The word “ _yes_ ” hissed out on a shaky breath.

Michael raises up on his knees, altering the angle to allow him more control, one of his hands working at the base, at the sack tensing beneath it - the way he’s learned David enjoys. Stroking a blunt fingernail along the sensitive skin just beyond that. David growls, the sound loud in the small room. Loud enough that Michael thinks someone might hear, but he doesn’t stop. His need for this - for _David_ \- too great. 

His own cock is swollen, heavy and needy between his legs, the urge to wrap his hand around it and _stroke_ almost unbearable. Instead, he presses a hand to David’s abdomen, encouraging him to lean back. The change in position forces David’s hand from Michael’s hair, but it also has the benefit of rocking David’s hips up just enough that Michael can work the fingers of his other hand further back.

He circles around the ring of muscle, but doesn't press forward. He turns his eyes to David, uncertain what he’ll find, but gratified when he is met with a pair of pupils blown wide, watching him with a kind of awe. David nods his head, and Michael feels a worry that had been building in him give way at the granted permission.

He pulls his mouth from David with reluctance, leaving his cock slicked with saliva that connects to Michael’s mouth in a thin thread. David groans at the loss, lifting his head to stare daggers at Michael as he fumbles at his bedside table to grab the bottle of lube he has stashed there.

“Vampire, remember? I can take it.”

Michael gives him a lopsided grin. “Humor me.”

David grumbles, but doesn’t argue.

The amount of experiences Michael's had since whatever this is between them has started is impressive, but this...this is a first.

And he wants to do it _right_.

So he takes his time. Working his lover open with slick fingers, allowing David’s body to guide the process more than anything else; his mouth on David’s cock all the while. He raises his eyes up to lock on the blond’s, thrilled by the way that his breathing has gone erratic, lip caught between his teeth. Michael hums around him at the sight, curling his fingers inside David at the same time; earning a strangled cry as he presses where he knows David wants it most.

Deciding that they’ve both waited long enough, he rises up, memorizing the sight before him. David’s legs spread wide and knees bent to accommodate Michael in the space between. His cock - slick with Michael’s saliva - twitching in the open air, seeking contact again, the head of it red and swollen.

He strokes his hands down David’s sides, reverent in a way he’s never been before.

In a way he’s never let himself _feel_ before.

When he sinks inside of David, his whole body shudders from the press of heated flesh that surrounds his cock. It moves through his limbs, down to the soles of his feet and out to the tips of his fingers where they clench David’s hips in their grip. _Fuck_ , he even feels it at the back of his eyes. Lids fluttering shut against the overwhelming sensations, his breath stuttering out of him on a sigh.

The intensity dialed up to eleven, he has to pause where he is, counting backwards from five just to stop himself from coming before they’ve even begun.

The heel of one of David’s feet digs into the back of his thigh, causing his eyes to snap open. Beneath him, the vampire has that smug grin Michael has come to know so well spread over his face, but it looks strained. His jaw tense. Still. Like he’s holding on by a thread. One of the vampire’s hands skirts down Michael’s back, blunt human nails scratching across the flesh until they reach Michael’s ass and _squeeze_. 

Michael pulls back, then thrusts forward. Rocking into David again and again with a pace that has his nerve endings firing off bursts of pleasure with every slide. 

The movement sends them slipping, in off-beat tandem, across Michael’s bed, until Michael is no longer standing with bent legs at the edge, but spread over David. The abrupt change of angle forces Michael deeper, a heavy moan of pleasure echoing out around the room that could be his. Or David’s. 

Or both of theirs.

It doesn’t matter.  

Michael presses one hand against the mattress by David’s shoulder to allow him leverage, but his other hand he glides down David’s side, hooking it up under his ass - his thigh - adjusting the angle, enjoying the way that David’s lips part, and his eyes fall shut at the change. The sight too tempting to ignore, he presses his mouth to the other man’s in a slow-motion kiss. He pulls David's lower lip between his, sucking it without breaking the skin, earning a full-bodied shudder for his efforts.

The arm that Michael had been using to hold himself up buckles, until he’s resting on his elbow, bringing them chest to chest, David’s cock caught between them, rubbing against Michael’s sweat-slicked stomach with every motion of their bodies together. His hand now free, Michael shifts his palm around the back of David’s neck, holding him in place.

Balancing on the edge of orgasm and wanting to keep it at bay for as long as he can, Michael slows his thrusts. But every push and drag brings him just that much closer. He locks his eyes on David's - wanting, _needing -_ to see him. To make sure that he's with Michael. 

That he's lost too.

It's the sight of those bright, blue eyes staring at him with an expression that Michael can’t read as David comes that is his undoing, his own orgasm rocketing through him with a roar that David smothers with a sloppy kiss.

His last thought before he blacks out from the overabundance of sensation is that he hopes he’ll have plenty of chances in the future to be able to figure out what that expression _means_.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Michael jerks awake with a gasp, the room around him dark, and the bed empty save for himself. He doesn’t recall falling asleep. But then his most recent memories rush back, and he knows it was less _falling asleep_ than it was _losing consciousness_ because he came so hard his brain needed time to reset.

He slumps back onto the pillow, disappointment flaring at the absence of David beside him, only for it to be washed away with a surge of pleasure as the scent of nicotine and smoke hits him. He turns his head towards the source, and finds his breath caught in his throat at the sight of David, still unclothed, standing by Michael’s window. Light from the front porch filters up and casts yellow shadows against his pale skin. There’s a flare of cherry-red from the end of the cigarette as he takes a drag. 

He’s _stunning_. 

It’s not the first time Michael has been struck by the thought, though it feels different this time somehow. Still as he is, one could mistake him as carved from stone. Though the dusting of hair at his abdomen, the set of birthmarks just north of his ass, and the myriad scars that line his body belie the notion. 

Michael’s been curious about the origins of the latter since his first few encounters with the blond. But David hasn’t offered, and Michael hasn’t braved asking.

Maybe one day. They’ve got time after all.

“I should go.” 

Michael frowns. That was close to the last thing he was thinking. More inclined to pull the blond back to the bed and beneath the covers for the rest of the night and day, in no hurry to let him out of his reach after so much time apart. 

He sits up, swinging his feet over the side, and offers the first excuse he can for why David should do _no such thing_. “Sun’ll be up soon.”

David casts a quick glance in Michael’s direction, before turning back to the window, expression a careful kind of neutral. “Which is why I should go.” His voice isn’t the teasing lilt Michael would expect. Instead it’s flat, dull. Maybe even a little wary.

Michael’s not sure what to make of that. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds go by, during which Michael indulges in inspecting David’s form, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest as he works his way through the cigarette.   

He tries to get a read on David’s mental state, but finds the way blocked. Which is a little disconcerting, but he tells himself that the other man is entitled to his privacy on occasion. 

Even if it makes Michael uneasy.

No other option to him, he focuses on reading him the old fashioned way, only to find that’s just as difficult. David offering up very little cues for Michael to take. 

Which is telling in and of itself, Michael having gotten to know David well enough that he can figure out at least a sliver of what he’s thinking.

Michael rises from the bed, ignoring his own lack of clothing, and joins David by the window, leaning against the frame. He looks out through the glass at the lightening sky a moment before turning to David and drinking in his profile. He keeps his voice at a hushed murmur. “Or you could stay.”

David’s eyes angle away from the window to meet Michael’s. “And chance being staked in my sleep?”

“No one’s gonna stake you, David.”

David lifts both eyebrows, flicking a bit of ash out the window. “So certain, Michael?”

“Yeah, I am. They all know you’re alive. They know I...see you.” 

David’s gaze takes a slow path up and down Michael’s naked form. The level of appreciation in it heats Michael’s blood in his veins, the throb of _want_ that pounds through him sharp and intense. But he ignores it. The timing all wrong. When David’s eyes reach Michael’s again, a smile full of dirty promises lifts the corners of the vampire’s mouth. “They know just how _much_ you’ve seen?” 

Laughter bursts from Michael’s lungs. “Hard to say at this point. You weren’t exactly quiet earlier.”

“Same could be said of you.” Smoke curls around David as he says it, let loose with the words.

“True. But not the first time they’ve heard me making strange noises in here.” He gives a shrug meant to be loose, unconcerned. Though it doesn’t feel it at all. “Probably won't be the last.” 

Michael takes the cigarette from David’s hand, letting his fingers brush over the blond’s as he does. Just because he wants to. Just because he _can_. He sucks in a lungful of the smoke, letting it linger before exhaling it between them. 

The blond doesn't complain, just breathes the smoke in on a purposeful inhale.

“How about this? I'm not tired and I don't think you are either.” Michael takes another drag from the dying cigarette, keeping his eyes on David. When he doesn't offer up a denial or a counterargument, Michael tosses the filter out the open window and tugs the frame shut. He lifts the heavy drape of fabric of his makeshift blackout curtains back up and over the glass, securing it to the nails he’s hammered in and sealing off the coming day. 

David looks at it, doubtful. “If that thing falls down?” 

Michael lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile. “Hasn’t so far.” 

“First time for everything.” 

Michael rolls his eyes. “We roll under the bed, and I give you permission to bite me and say ‘I told you so.’ Deal?”

“Wasn’t aware I needed permission.”

Michael snorts, but doesn’t argue the point. Opting instead to continue selling his position. “It’s effective. No light gets through. It's safe. Promise.” Michael meets his eyes, making sure his next thought is heard loud and clear. ‘ _I want you to stay._ **_Please_** _.’_

The dry humor on David’s face melts away, replaced with that look of surprise that Michael’s fast becoming familiar with. Eyes a little wide, mouth a little open.

Michael uses the distraction to curve a hand around the back of David’s neck, pulling him into a closed-mouth kiss that is easy and undemanding. Filled less with heat than it is with affection. In no mood to pretend like he doesn’t give a shit about him anymore.

He thinks he ought to be worried by how attached he's become. Worried by the fast growth of emotion that doesn’t seem to be slowing or stopping.

It's like he’s caught in an avalanche, only he doesn’t care. Has no interest in digging his way out.

Even if he _should_.

David’s lips slide soft and sure against Michael’s, a low moan sounding out between them. The blond’s hand wraps around him, curling against his hip. But there’s no demand in the action, no urgency. Michael responds in kind, pulling David with him in easy steps back to the bed, never breaking their kiss.

They fall back onto the mattress, bodies entangled, and mouths fused together.

_Fuck it._

What good have _shoulds_ ever done for Michael anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that there was like A WHOLE LOT going on in this chapter, and I had THOUGHT about cutting it in two, just because of the length, but it didn't feel right doing that. So here's hoping you all agree.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order soft David/Michael content? Because if so, the first part of this chapter's got you covered! How about the world's longest conversation between Michael and Sam? Then the rest of this chapter is for you! 
> 
> I'm not sorry.
> 
> As always, a HUGE THANK YOU to all of my readers. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I hope you continue to enjoy.

* * *

The next time Michael wakes, he comes into consciousness slowly. The exhaustion holding his limbs down heavy enough that he knows it can’t be any later than mid-morning.

The solid weight of the still sound asleep David spread over him tells him the same. Michael’s bed is small. Too small really for two full-grown men to fit comfortably in it side-by-side without being draped around one another.

Logically, Michael knows they don’t need an excuse for post-coital proximity, but it does help Michael feel more at ease with indulging in what is, essentially, _a cuddle_.  

Especially given how very _different_ it feels waking beside him this time in comparison to any given evening in the hotel.

Like they turned some metaphorical corner during the night.

And even with as small as Michael’s bed is, there is still enough space for them to not be as entangled as they are. If that’s what they wanted - if that’s what they _chose_.

Instead, one pale arm is wrapped over Michael’s chest, the long fingers of David’s hand tucked up tight against Michael’s ribs in direct counterpoint to Michael’s arm trapped beneath David’s chest, and curved up around his shoulder. If his own blood still circulated at the normal rate, he thinks the limb would long be asleep rather than the pins and needles session only just beginning to build.

Their legs are in a similar state of entwinement, stretched out limbs trapped under and between each other’s. The press of the vampire’s bare skin against Michael’s isn’t overhot, like it would be if the other man were human, but it’s not exactly cold either. From Michael’s own proximity, he guesses, but maybe it’s just him. Whatever the cause, everywhere their skin touches (which, given that neither of them is clothed beneath the thin covers, is a considerable amount) there is a soft sort of warmth that Michael finds he doesn’t want to move away from.

And since he can’t come up with a single reason why he _should_ , he slides his free hand down from where it rests on the pillow by his own head until it’s laying against the arm David has wrapped around his chest. It’s a shameless bid for more points of contact, but who’s going to call him out on it?

He tilts his head down, closer to the top of David’s where it leans against his shoulder, until his mouth is just resting against the other man’s forehead. A huff of air slips between his lips. On the inhale, it carries David’s scent up and through him, leaving him feeling relaxed. Content.

 _Happy_.

It’s a feeling he could get used to.

He’s just falling back asleep, David held as close as he can get him, when the sound of a startled gasp, followed by a whimper he knows could only come from Nanook, reaches him.

 _Damn it all._ He needs a lock.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He _really_ doesn’t. He wants to pretend that he has no idea that his brother is standing in his doorway, taking in the full view of Michael and David laying in each other’s arms, and drawing entirely accurate conclusions. But then Sam speaks, and Michael’s left with no choice but to acknowledge his presence.  

“What the shit!”

Michael doesn’t respond straight away. Doesn’t flinch or jump, or otherwise behave like he’s doing anything wrong. (Because he’s _not._ ) Instead, he opts to play dumb, cracking open bleary eyes at his brother over the back of David’s head. “Sam? What time is it?”

Sam’s face goes through a quick series of expressions, from shock to anger and back again. “It’s quarter after _what the shit, Mike!?”_

Michael groans at the overloud exclamation. The sound better than a bucket of cold water at ruining his pleasant mood. “Keep it down, Sammy.” He grumbles through his parched throat.

“Why? So I don’t wake the _vampire in your bed!?”_

Michael swipes his tongue over his lips, trying to moisten them enough to let him speak. “Uhh, yeah. That.”

Sam just stares at him like he’s got three heads, but doesn’t offer any additional commentary. For a few seconds, Michael thinks that maybe - just maybe - he’s broken his brother’s brain enough that Sam will drop the whole thing and leave. But his luck’s not that good.

“Why is he in your bed, Mike!?”

Irritated by the idiotic question with the oh-so-obvious answer, Michael snaps at his brother. “Why do you _think_?"

“Eugh! Gross, Mike!”

Too damn exhausted to deal with the judgmental face of his brother, Michael closes his eyes and drops his head back to his pillow. He stretches his senses out, glad to find that his mother’s not at home - likely at work - and that their grandfather is outside, by his shed. So at least the audience for Sam’s outburst is limited to the dog. 

Small favors.

He takes a deep breath, finding a weird sort of calm in the way that it causes David’s unbreathing body to shift against his own. He flexes his fingers against the vampire’s arm where he holds it, tightening his grip. “Did you need something, Sam?”

“I didn't before, but I sure as shit do **now** , Mike!”

Michael opens his eyes again, meeting the appalled ones of his brother where he stands gaping by the bedroom door. He can tell by the stubborn set to his frame that he’s not going to go away on his own, so Michael caves just to get it over with faster. “Give me five minutes and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Whaddya need five minutes for, Mike? Huh? To _snuggle some more?!”_

Michael rolls his eyes. “To get dressed, Sam.”

In response, Sam’s voice reaches a pitch never before achieved without the aid of helium. “ ** _You’re naked!?!_ ** ”

Michael gives him a pointed look, brows lifting towards his hairline, not deigning to gift that one with a response. The pink in Sam’s cheeks brightens to a deeper shade of red. The sweet scent of embarrassment beginning to pour off of him blotting out the bitter tang of indignation.

It would be hilarious in most any other circumstance. But right now, Michael just really wishes his brother would go be anywhere else and leave them be.   

David moves in Michael’s arms, cool drafts of air coasting against his collarbone as his breathing starts back up. “Sounds like he wants a show, Michael. Wanna give him one?” The fingers of David’s hand twitch against Michael’s ribs as the blond cracks an eye open, looking straight at Michael; a lopsided smirk visible from where his face is pressed against Michael’s shoulder.

Caught by David’s sleepy stare, Michael hears rather than sees his brother stumble in fright, his heartbeat speeding like a rabbit’s. “Holy shit! He’s awake?!”

In Michael’s direct line of sight, David rolls his eyes, the sight making Michael smile. “Hrmph, hard to sleep when you're squawking like a dying bird.”

Michael snorts, the sound trailing off in time with David’s hand wandering down his side, towards his hip. Michael’s fingers clench down on David’s bicep in an effort to still the man’s progress.  _‘Not while my brother’s watching.'_

The corner of David’s mouth twitches up again, but his hand stills against him.  _‘So get rid of him.'_ The thought is accompanied by a deep rumble, too quiet for anyone but the two of them to hear.  

Michael swallows down the sudden spike of lust, never taking his eyes from David’s. “Five minutes, Sam. I’ll meet you downstairs.” His voice is rough, sandpaper dry. Telegraphing his physical response to the vampire’s enticement in a way he’d rather his brother not be around to witness.

“...Fine.”

When they hear the sound of retreating footsteps, but nothing to indicate that the door has been shut, David’s grin turns cheeky. “Told you he wanted a show.”

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

By the time Michael finally makes it to the kitchen, it’s been twenty minutes.

Sam is sitting down at the table, feet tapping a mile a minute beneath it. Michael can’t say he’s sorry he made his brother wait, not when he can still taste David’s lethargic, but enthusiastic, kisses on his tongue.

“That wasn’t five minutes, Mike. Not even close. What, did the bloodsucker drain your ability to tell time along with your common sense?”

Even if it means being treated to an extra helping of insults via his freaked out baby bro.

 _Worth it_ , he thinks. The answering chuckle he hears inside his skull is decidedly wicked.

Michael grabs the coffee pot, and sets to filling it with water. Knowing there’s zero chance of him making it through the upcoming conversation without caffeinated support. “You wanna talk, or just planning to be a jerk?”

Behind him, Sam sputters. “ **I’m** a jerk?! Me? I’m not the one sleeping with the enemy, Mike!”

“Sam-”

His brother cuts him off, snapping at him in cool, bitter tones. “Don’t try and tell me it wasn’t what it looked like either.”

Hidden safe behind sunglasses, Michael roll his eyes. “Wasn’t gonna.” 

“Can’t believe I caught my own brother having _sex_ with a vampire!” Sam shudders.

“You didn’t _catch_ us. Unless you were spying last night.” Michael smirks over his shoulder, enjoying the look of absolute horror that blooms on his brother’s face. “In which case, don’t tell me.”

Sam’s mouth flags open and shut, like he’s preparing to swallow down an ocean. “What?! OF COURSE I WASN’T SPYING.” 

Michael nods, and finishes setting up the coffee pot. “Good.”

“But, _shit_ , Mike. You and, and _him…_ ” 

“Yeah.” Michael sighs, already losing his patience with the circular discussion, but telling himself that it’s better to get it over with all at once rather than dragging it out.

“So you’re admitting it!?”

Coffee brewing, Michael leans against the counter, hands braced against the edge, fingers tapping at the formica. “No point in denying it.”

Sam’s face contorts through about a dozen expression, disgusted curiosity winning out. “Why? I mean...he’s a _vampire_ , Mike.”

“Yeah. I’d noticed.” He fishes in the cabinets for a clean mug. After a moment to consider, he grabs a second one for Sam. “I’m not exactly human these days either, you know.”

Michael doesn’t have to look at his brother to know that he’s frowning at him. The visual easy enough to conjure in his head after a lifetime living together. Sure enough, when he turns back in his direction, the corners of his brother’s mouth are pulled down deep, his forehead creased to match. “So what? That means you have to have _sex_ with him?”

Michael expels out a long breath of air, willing the coffee to brew faster. “No - but… It’s complicated, Sammy.” 

“So uncomplicate it, Mike.” The statement is annoyed; a thread of anger coloring the edges.

Michael doesn’t answer right away. Instead, rolling it around in his head, trying to figure out how to explain the myriad reasons why things are the way they are with David. There’s a simple explanation buried within them, he knows, but it’s not one he’s ready to acknowledge to himself, let alone his brother. “Not sure if I can.” 

The expression of annoyance, of anger, on Sam's face falls away. Confusion and something that Michael can’t quite place filling it instead. “How long...uhh, has it been going on?”

Michael shrugs. “A while.”

“What’s ‘a while,’ Mike?”

“‘ _A while_ ’ a while, alright?” Michael barks at him, agitated.

“No. It’s not alright!” Sam narrows his eyes at him, face pinched. “Why won’t you say, huh? What are you hiding?”

“I’m not _hiding_ anything.”

Sam lets out an offended one-note laugh. “Hah! Like hell you aren’t! I just caught you _in bed_ with the freaking _vampire_ that _tried to kill us_ , Mike! With the vampire that _turned you_ , and you’re claiming you’re not hiding anything?!”

“I’m not!” Michael huffs out, shifting in place. The urge to defend David’s actions is almost as strong as the want to defend his own, the two of them feeling intrinsically linked. But he stops himself, knowing that doing so will just derail the conversation, and make it go on longer than it already is. “You got a pretty good eyeful of what I _had_ been keeping under wraps. What difference is giving you details gonna make?” He glances back at the coffee pot, glaring at the unfinished beverage as it mocks him with every slow drop.

Sam clears his throat, drawing Michael’s attention back to his unhappy and confused brother. “What - what about Star, Mike?”

Michael frowns, unable to follow the trail of the conversation to the question. “What about her? I haven’t spoken to her in months.” 

Sam scoffs. “That’s because you’re never here, and when you _are_ , you’re unconscious.”

Michael bristles at the chastisement. He hasn’t slept anywhere _but_ the house for the better part of the last month. “That’s not fair, Sam. I’ve been here a _lot_ lately.”

“No. You’ve been _working_ a lot lately. Not the same thing as being _here_.”

Michael can’t argue with that, but still doesn’t appreciate being taken to task for it. “ _Fine_. Sorry I’ve been trying to bring in some extra cash so we don’t have to live on a shoestring. Thought maybe you'd like a TV do go with the damn Guides we get every week.” He snips at his brother, enjoying the way that Sam’s cheeks heat in response. “What the hell does my not being here have to do with Star?”

Sam rolls his eyes, his whole head getting in on the motion. “Because, Doofus, she calls Mom. Every week. To check in. Mom asked her too and she _does_. Which you would _know_ if you were  _here_.”

Michael blinks, the news unexpected. “Oh.” He reaches up, scratching at the back of his neck as he thinks over that nugget of information. He’s been so buried in his own problems since she left - since before that really - that he hasn’t had a lot of energy to spare thinking on the girl that first pulled him into David’s orbit. A spark of shame flames up in him at the realization. The two of them may not have ever really had a chance, but she damn well deserves better than to be forgotten. “How, uh, how is she?”

“Good. I guess?” Sam shrugs, appearing unsure. “I don’t know. She’s quiet. She’s stuck around where Laddie is. His - uh - his mother...Max killed her. That was how Laddie ended up missing and with Star and the rest.”

“Shit." 

“Yeah.”

Michael turns back to the coffee pot, watching as the last of the liquid drips into the clear glass. Thankful beyond measure that it’s done, he snatches the pot up and fills the two mugs he’s set on the counter. He’s not sure if talking to Star would be a good idea or not, but that doesn’t mean he can’t reach out. A little. “Next time she calls, tell her...tell her hello for me?”

“Sure, whatever.” Sam takes the mug of coffee from Michael when he offers it, reaching across the expanse of the table for the sugar and dumping in a heaping spoonful. “Can you-” He mimes towards the fridge and Michael opens it up and pulls out the half and half without a word, dropping it onto the table for this brother. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.”

Sam proceeds to ruin the coffee Michael’s made by filling it with enough cream to turn the black liquid a shade of tan just shy of white. Michael smiles, glad that some things never change.

Coffee doctored up to high heaven, Sam takes a sip, sighing happily as it goes down. Michael takes the time to do the same to his dark brew, in desperate need of the energy boost it offers. He keeps his eyes on his brother as he drinks, waiting for the inquisition to restart. 

He doesn’t have to wait long, having just made it through his third mouthful when Sam lays into him again. “Now stop changing the subject!”

Michael swallows the liquid, gaze focused on his brother through his sunglasses. “I _didn't_. You’re the one that started complaining about me working and brought up Star.”

“Because she was your girlfriend!”

“She really wasn’t.” Michael shakes his head, wondering how often he’s going to have to say it.  

Sam gives Michael a narrow eyed stare. “Uh-huh. Sure. You went and joined up with a vampire cult because you wanted in her _pants_ , Bud.”

Michael snorts. “That’s...so far off the mark, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Okay. _Fine.”_ Sam leans back in his chair, looking smug. Like he thinks he’s going to catch Michael out in a lie. “So then why’d ya do it? Huh?”

“I didn’t know what I was doing at the time, Sam. You _know_ that.” Michael fidgets against the counter, ticking the fingers of his free hand against his leg. He wants to sit. The sun working its special brand of magic even through the coffee, trying to drag him back into unconsciousness. But he’s not sure he’d be welcome at the table, so he settles for using the counter to hold his weight up instead. “She wasn’t...I liked Star. Not pretending I didn’t. If things had worked out different, then maybe, but…” Michael glances out the window, at his grandfather's weed garden. Needing the distance to be able to release the next words into the air. Knowing how his brother’s likely to respond, but not seeing any way around it. “I liked David too.” 

The pregnant pause that follows is broken by his brother's disbelieving and squeaky voice. “Seriously?”

Michael rotates his head back to Sam, eyeing him over the top of his sunglasses. “Yeah, Sam. Seriously.”

Sam’s face goes through another series of over-exaggerated contortions before a single word manages to make it out of his windpipe. “ _Why_?”

Michael barks out a solo laugh and shakes his head. “ _Hell_ , I don't know. You want me to list his good qualities or something?”

“He have any?”

Michael shrugs, slumping further against the counter while he sips from his mug, uncertain how to even try and explain that _yeah_ , the vampire does have a few good qualities. At least...he does so far as Michael’s concerned.

He doubts Sam would appreciate most of them the way that Michael does.  

Sam heaves a long sigh. “Sit down, Mike. You’re falling over.”

Michael tilts his head to the side, the offer taking him by surprise. "You sure?”

Sam rolls his eyes, waving his hands about in a nonspecific manner. “What? You think _this_ is gonna be the final straw for me? Come on, Mike. Give me some credit.”

A smile tugs up one corner of Michael’s mouth. He grabs the coffee pot in his free hand and puts it on the table with his mug. He pulls the chair across from his brother out, the legs scratching on the tile floor as he does, and takes a seat. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever. You live here too.”

Michael hums beneath his breath at the comment, glad that his brother hasn’t written him off yet. Hoping that maybe that means they might be able to keep this, when all is said and done. He refills his coffee, drinking down half a mug in one gulp, but knowing he'll need a boatload more if he has to stay awake for much longer. 

Sam fiddles with the spoon in his cup, watching Michael as he refills the mug a third time. “So…this mean we can’t kill him?”

Michael chokes on the coffee, slamming the mug onto the tabletop with a growl that makes Sam jump. Maybe Michael should feel guilty about that, seeing as how the whole reason he's sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the morning having this conversation in the first place is because he wants to keep his brother in his life and not scare him off, but he _can't_. Not when the same protective urges that so often come into play around Sam and their Mom are now making themselves known in regards to David. And after last night, he’s not going to pretend otherwise. “We’re _not_ killing him, Sam. You hear me?”

Sam looks at him with wide, uneasy eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I hear ya, Mike.” He swallows down more of his coffee-flavored cream, looking away. “No way I can change your mind? Huh?”

“No, Sam.” Michael’s voice is a low rumble, irritated by the repeated question.

“You sure? I mean, seems like a waste of an opportunity is all. What with him just laying up there, and me with a drawer full of stakes. Could make it quick.”

Michael does a double-take at his brother. “Why the _hell_ do you have a drawer full of stakes?”

Sam frowns. “Uh, because my brother’s a blood sucker, and so’s his boyfriend? Gotta protect myself in case someone decides they need a snack in the middle of the night.”

Michael’s stomach drops at the matter of fact statement. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Sam.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Maybe you won’t, but the murderer asleep in your bed sure as shit would.”

Michael takes his sunglasses off, folding them up and placing them on the table with a clack. He blinks away the pain that the sun filtering in through the wispy curtains causes, wanting to make sure that his brother can see how serious he is. How much he means what he says. “He _won’t._  I promise.”

Sam's eyes go from narrow slits to wide saucers. “How can you promise that?!"

“Because I asked him not to, and he agreed.”

Sam’s voice rises in pitch again, his pulse picking up the pace in time. “Oh, good. Sure. Let’s take his word for it. He _kills_ people, Mike!”

Michael sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair, his finger nails catching bits of dried blood still caught in the curls from last night. “I know. I’m...working on it.”

“You’re working...he’s a vampire!” Sam sputters. “What do you mean  _you’re working on it_?! What, you think you’re gonna be able to convince him to _stop_? Go veggie or something?”

Michael shrugs, knowing how it sounds. “Something like that.”

Sam looks dubious, but to Michael's surprise, he takes the time to think over his response rather than bleating out the first thing that crosses his mind. “Is that why...umm, are you trying to get him to... _stop_ by _sleeping_ with him?” He shifts in his seat when he says it, like he wants to stand up and run rather than discuss his brother’s sex life.

Which, _okay_ , Michael would prefer that option  _too_ , but so long as Sam is going down that route, Michael is damn well going to make things as awkward for his brother as he  _can._

He loves him, but he's not a damn saint. 

And so Michael parts his lips in a too toothy grin, feeling vindictive enjoyment at the way Sam's face falters, like he knows he's made a mistake before Michael even speaks. “No. That’s just a _really_ big bonus.”

“Oh, ugh! Come on, Mike! I don't wanna hear stuff like _that_!!”

“Then stop bringing it up.”

Sam grumbles, but takes his advice, hitting Michael with an entirely different - but to be expected - question. “You really trust him?”

Michael’s gut reaction is to say _yes_. He does. But the fact that he doesn’t even need to _think_ about it - his mouth moving to answer before his brain can even process it - is enough to give him pause. So he molls it over while his brother waits. Because his brother's not _wrong_ , David  _does_ kill people. And hell, Michael knows for a fact that he did so just last night. Maybe even more than one person. 

But the sphere of people whose well-being Michael is capable of caring about these days has shrunk a tremendous amount, and so it doesn't bother him the way that he knows it bothers Sam. 

Instead, when he thinks about whether or not he really  _trusts_ David, what he thinks about is how David had showed up last night when Michael was two steps away from an unpleasant ending. He thinks about how, despite Michael’s continued stubborn refusal to give in to what they both know he wants, David still helped him. He thinks about how David agreed to stop trying to cut Michael off from his family. How David suggested that Michael could even  _keep_ them, if that's what he wants. 

But mostly he thinks about how David  _stayed_.

And he knows that his gut reaction was the right one. “I do.”

Sam doesn’t say anything in response, looking off into the depths of the kitchen with a pensive face. Michael leaves him be, willing to wait it out. But the caffeine can only do so much, so when the silence between them stretches for too long, Michael’s eyelids pull shut. He knows he must have nodded off when his head jerks back upright at the sound of Sam’s voice breaching the space between them.

“You look better.”

Michael shakes his head a little, to knock the cobwebs out of it. “What?”

“The last few days you’d been looking kinda-” Sam swirls his hand around his face, pointing at it. “ _Dead._ Real pale and, and thin. I thought it was - ya know...” He rocks side to side in his chair. “Part of the whole bloodsucker deal catching up. But you look better today. More alive.” He grimaces. “Still got death-breath though.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“That because of him? Because he’s here?”

Michael swallows down another mouthful of coffee, looking over his brother’s shoulder, rather than straight at him, and nods.

“Why’d he - if he’s so great - why’d he let you get like that, huh?”

Michael swivels his gaze back to Sam. His poor brother looks like he’s been put through the wringer by the conversation.

Michael can empathize.

“He didn’t. I did.” Sam looks at him, asking him to go on without saying a word. Michael does. “We had an argument. I stormed out, cut myself off from him as a source of food.” He drums his fingers against his mug, wondering how much he should divulge. Opting for less. “Turns out animal blood? Not such a good idea for the long term. It fucked me up. Pretty bad. Anyway, David came - fixed me.”

Sam gives him a sad, sullen look. “He’s the one that broke you in the first place, Mike.”

“It’s...we’re well past that now, Sam.”

“I’m not.” Sam pouts.

“I need you to get past it. Please.”

“Why should I?”

Michael lowers his voice. Exhausted by the sun and the conversation and the constant need to defend himself, but also desperately wanting to have his brother on his side. “Because I’m still your brother and I...I don’t want to lose that. Ever. No matter what else I might be.”

His brother goes silent again, staring down into his mug for long moments that drag on. “Was it a lie? About you being too far-gone to be saved?” Sam asks, voice curt.

Michael sighs. “Sam-”

Sam’s eyes shoot back up to his brother, angry blue chips drilling into Michael. “I mean it, Mike. If I stake him, right here right now, will you be fixed?”

The clouds outside move, letting in a stray shaft of sunlight through the kitchen window. Michael hisses as it hits his irises, lifting his hand to block it out. When the pain settles down, he links his gaze with his brother again. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

Michael shakes his head. “I’m not.”

Angry red spots color his brother’s cheeks, blood rushing to the capillaries in a quiet siren’s call. He smacks an open palm against the tabletop, shaking his coffee cup, and sending the sugar & cream flavored liquid sloshing over the edges of the ceramic. “Then he is! We can fix you, Mike! I know we can!”

“No, Sam, we _can’t_.” Sam’s lips part again, but Michael powers through. “Argument’s sake? Something happens to David-” Michael digs blunt teeth into his lower lip, finding the idea of anything _happening_ to David almost as distasteful as he would _Sam,_  but knowing he needs to say it. “Something happens, and I...revert...or whatever.” He takes a breath, breaking eye contact to gather his thoughts before focusing on his brother once more. “I’m not gonna be the same, Sam. I’m not gonna be _okay_. You can’t - there’s no _fixing_ me. Not anymore.”

“How can you be sure, Mike? Huh? How can you _know_? If we kill him, maybe…Maybe everything will go back to the way it was.” Sam frowns with his whole face, his lower lip wobbling. It reminds Michael of when they were kids.

Michael hates it.

“It won’t, Sam. I know you think I’m - I’m broken, or...but I’m _not_.” He huffs, trying to find the right words to explain. “I’m just...different. And that...there’s no going back. Even if I wake up tomorrow, and I'm not _half_ anymore, this - what I am now _-_ I'm not going to be able to wash that off.”

Sam shakes his head back and forth in quick succession. “I don’t believe that, Mike. You _can_. I know you can. You just gotta want it bad enough.”

Michael stares at his brother, desperate to make him understand. Having no concrete way of explaining he allows half-formed concepts that just seem to exist in his brain start spilling out of him. Hoping it'll make sense once they're out in the open. “You’re a teenager now, right?”

Sam blinks at him, confusion painting his face. “What?”

“You’re a teenager now, but you were a kid just a few years ago. But you got older, and you understand more now than you did back then.” The expression of confusion on Sam’s face doesn’t fade, but Michael feels like he’s got his feet beneath him finally, and so he continues on. “But if something happened and you woke up tomorrow knowing everything you do now, but your body was suddenly five years old again, that wouldn’t make you _not_ a teenager anymore really.” Michael pauses, organizing his thoughts before he finishes. “It would just make you...smaller.”

Michael can see the gears turning in Sam’s head, his brother’s mouth parting a little in disbelief. “You - you're comparing turning into a vampire to  _growing up?_  For real?”

Michael shrugs again. “I guess.” He knows it’s not the best of metaphors, but it’s all he’s got. Finished saying his piece and happy to let Sam think it over on his own, Michael leans his elbow against the tabletop, propping his head in his hand so it doesn’t fall forward. He closes his eyes against the sun, and soaks up the silence that falls between them.

Though nothing about the space is silent, really. Michael can hear the way that the wind outside is rattling their grandfather's wind-chimes, can hear the way that the house is settling around them, creaking wood and dinging pipes, can hear the way that his brother’s blood flows steady in his veins. 

It’s soothing.

“Hey, Michael? You awake?”

Michael blinks tired eyes up at his brother. “Hmm?” Michael tries, but can’t manage more than that, the effort of peeling his eyelids open having taken most of his energy.

Sam snorts. The expression on his face something that Michael’s too exhausted to decipher. “That's a no. Go back to bed, man.”

Michael nods, the idea the best he’s heard all day. “Yeah, think I will.” He takes a deep breath and presses his hands to the tabletop, using it as leverage to stand up. He rocks on his feet once he’s upright, catching himself against the counter when he stumbles. Sam jumps to his feet to offer him a hand, but Michael waves him off. “‘M fine, Sam.” Once he has his legs steady beneath him, he works his way up the stairs and to his room, not looking back.

He shuffles beneath the covers of his bed, pulling David's cool body into his; the vampire's arms lock around Michael in response.

Michael's halfway to unconsciousness when he realizes he didn’t shut the door to his room. He knows that he should get up to close it. Hell, maybe even find a way to barricade the damn thing, but he can’t move. His body having decided it’s had enough, sleep all it can handle for the rest of the day. And so he resigns himself to having another awkward conversation when his Mom gets home. But then he hears a shuffle of feet, and a snort from just outside his room. His brother's scent wafting in on a draft of air from the hallway. 

A moment later, the door clicks shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun note! The scene where Sam walks in on David and Michael? That was LEGIT the second scene I wrote for this fic, like WAY back in April. Kind of hilarious that it took over 55K words to FINALLY get to publish it, but writing is funny that way sometimes. 
> 
> Also, a quick note to say that I've been a little bogged down IRL lately, hence the slower than typical updates. I have a feeling this is going to continue for a little while longer still. My apologies in advance for that. Please be patient with me, and I promise to keep the updates coming as often as I can. (I'm too in love with these two to leave them hanging for long!)


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